


In My Blood

by Jackalopelegs



Series: Lady Belmont [2]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: (mentioned only) - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Aristocracy, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Married Couple, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Napoleonic Wars, Nobility, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Racism, Reader-Insert, Regency Romance, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Thriller, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackalopelegs/pseuds/Jackalopelegs
Summary: Marrying Trevor meant two things for you. Firstly, you are Lady Belmont by day, the perfect image of everything a lady should be, and well-liked within high society. Secondly, you are a monster hunter by night, not at all what a lady should be, and very much disliked by the creatures you kill.Trevor is slowly making peace with the past, and has started looking to the future instead. The responsibility of continuing the Belmont line is on his shoulders, and there's nobody he'd rather do it with than you.However, when an elusive dhampir offers to reveal to you the secrets behind the massacre that took away Trevor's family, you're not sure if you can say no.
Relationships: Trevor Belmont/Reader, Trevor Belmont/You
Series: Lady Belmont [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114673
Comments: 19
Kudos: 29





	1. Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I have in fact returned, bearing the first chapter of the juicy, juicy sequel to Say So. If you haven’t read Say So, don’t worry! You don’t have to in order to read this story, but Say So /does/ contain a lot more explicit and naughty Trevor/reader goodness so... don’t let me stop you.
> 
> This sequel takes on a lot more serious tone than my previous work (Choo choo! All aboard the angst train!), and I’m trying to make a point of it to put more effort into writing the chapters and crafting the entirety of the story. I’m especially spending more time on getting flow of the story and descriptions/dialogue right. I’ve got the gist of it planned out, but I don’t know yet how many chapters it’ll take to get there. Regardless, get ready for one helluva ride.
> 
> I’m planning to post one chapter every weekend, which I think will be manageable for me. The chapters are far longer than the ones I wrote for Say So. There’s /definitely/ smut in here (duh!), but it’s woven (more) into the story now so I’m not posting it in separate chapters anymore.
> 
> I’m looking forward to having you all on this writing journey with me, and I sincerely hope you’ll enjoy reading this!
> 
> EDIT 30 JAN 2021: I’m on more of a roll with writing than expected, so I’m aiming to post on Friday, Sunday, and Wednesday mornings now. My timezone is CET! If I miss a posting day because I’m busy, I’ll likely post on the next scheduled day. See you then!

This had been one of the achievements that she was rather proud of. Prouder than most, in fact. Not that she was a woman who didn’t take pride in the things she achieved, oh no, not at all. She just felt like that for something like _this_ , she could afford the extra dash of pride.

That night, her senses had the privilege of enjoying a feast like no other. The cries and wails of pain and agony, echoing and reverberating through the hallways of the mansion. The acrid smell that hung thick in the air. The warmth and stickiness on her fingertips and beneath her painted nails. The taste of iron on her tongue. The sight of blood. So much blood. She’d never seen anything quite so beautiful before.

She liked it when they had struggled against her. When they had tried to fight back. The feeble attempts at grabbing a weapon, at trying to stake her, to hurt her in any way possible, even if it was just to give another person the opportunity to escape. None of them escaped, of course. She liked playing with her food, but she never let anyone go. Not unless it served another purpose. The Belmonts fancied themselves monster hunters, and she took great satisfaction in reminding them that they, in fact, were nothing of the sort. At the end of the day, they were all mere humans: glorified bags of blood that happened to be bipedal. Ripping them apart was sufficient to prove her point, she thought.

The screams were a musical symphony rivalling those of those fancy human composers, and some sentimental part of her was a little sad that she’d likely never have the pleasure of hearing anything like it ever again.

Though maybe she would, she had thought to herself with a rather perverse smile when she realised they’d missed someone. Her servants had counted and identified the bodies after they’d all been killed. Trevor Belmont wasn’t among them. He was lucky to not have been home that night, then.

It wouldn’t be worth the time to seek him out and kill him. She had more pressing matters to attend to. Besides, maybe he’d start a family of his own, and she would have a chance of recreating this beautiful scene of blood and gore that she’d painted.

Maybe he’ll appreciate what she left behind for him. Maybe he won’t. Regardless, he’ll surely never forget it.

*

Trevor abruptly sits up. A thin sheen of cold sweat sticks to his skin. His breathing is laboured and heavy. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but finds that his mouth is far too dry to do so. He looks at the windows, the heavy curtains drawn in front of them to block out any light. Still, the faintest rays of morning light peek through from between and beneath the fabric. It’s early, then. As he exhales and leans back against the headboard of the bed, you rub your eyes and look at him with a groggy expression.

“Honey? What’s the matter?” you ask, stifling a yawn.

“Nothing,” Trevor croaks, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand. He finishes it in one go and sets it back down. “Go back to sleep.”

Immediately, you’re wide awake. Call it a sixth sense, a woman’s intuition, or whatever you like, but you can always tell when Trevor is lying. _Especially_ when something is wrong. Cosying up to him and taking his hand into yours, you can’t help but notice how clammy his skin feels as you repeat your question. “What’s the matter?”

“Bad dream, ‘s all,” he tells you, giving your hand a squeeze. “I’m alright, don’t worry.”

“What did you dream about?”

God, you’re tenacious, Trevor thinks as he shoots you a look. Then again, that’s exactly one of the things he likes about you so much. When something’s bothering him, you’ll always find a way to get it out of him. Talking about it more often than not makes him feel better too, no matter how unlikely he is to ever admit that out loud. He manages to swallow the lump in his throat before he gives in. “About the night my family was murdered.” He doesn’t even have to look at you to know that you’re going to ask him if he wants to talk about it. So he just continues with a cheerless look on his face. “It’s almost always the same dream. The moment I came back home, at night. I’m standing in front of the front doors and it’s completely quiet. And I know there’s something wrong, but I can’t do anything. Can’t move, or look around, not even scream if I wanted to. All I can do is just stand there helplessly, looking at the front door, and knowing damn well what’s behind it.”

You watch Trevor exhale and sink further into the pillows. “Hey,” you begin softly. You’re not entirely sure what to say. You were hoping the words would come to you as you spoke, but what is there to say, really? There’s nothing you can think of that feels appropriate, nothing that feels right. “Thank you for telling me this,” you settle for, and Trevor gives you a half-hearted smile. After pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder, you ask, “Would a cuddle make you feel better?”

“It probably would, actually,” he says, lying down properly next to you again so you can completely sink into his embrace. You rest your head against his chest and drape your arm over his waist, the other arm wedged between the two of you so you can draw little circles on his skin with your fingers. Occasionally you feel him shiver when you brush over a particularly pleasant spot. There you remain for a while as you listen to his heartbeat calm down, and bit by bit return to a slow and steady rhythm. With his arms wrapped around you and your legs tangled, it’s very, very tempting to allow yourself to drift off to sleep again.

Trevor, of course, realises this and reminds you not to. “Sun’s almost up. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

“Mm... Not just you?” you mumble, voice muffled by his skin.

He lets out a low chuckle and you feel the pleasant rumble in his chest. It’s one of your favourite feelings. He strokes your hair, carefully running his fingers through the strands as he works out any tangles in there. “No, Lady Belmont, I’m afraid not. You have your own responsibilities today that require your attention.”

“...Five more minutes?”

Trevor kisses your forehead. “Alright, five more minutes.”

*

Hiring enough people to keep the Estate running was... a process. To say the least.

Finding willing people was already hard enough, especially after what had happened to the previous staff members. Then there was the matter of the requirement you and Trevor both agreed on: everyone has to be able to defend themselves in a fight, in some shape or form.

Miraculously, though, you managed to scrounge together the bare minimum of staff. The _very_ bare minimum.

“Rise and shine, ma’am!” The curtains are drawn open for you, and you lift a hand to block out the light as you squint. You’re awfully aware of the lack of Trevor next to you in bed. “Lord Belmont said you’d fallen back asleep, and sent me to wake you. He’s already left.”

Damn it.

Though you can barely discern her features with the bright sunlight shining in from behind her, you just _know_ that Millie is smiling at you. There’s hardly a time that the girl isn’t smiling, really. Sitting up and rubbing your eyes, you ask, “What time is it?”

“Well past eight, ma’am. Shall I bring breakfast up to your room, or will you have it downstairs?”

You let out a long, drawn out exhale through your nostrils, still tired despite the extra sleep you got. Or maybe you’re tired because you’re not much in the mood for your responsibilities today? You’d much rather spend the day enjoying the nice weather, reading a book in the garden. Now you actually have to get up and get dressed _properly_. “No, downstairs is fine.” You chew your bottom lip. You don’t really want to eat breakfast alone. You _know_ it’s not “proper” to dine with the staff, but neither Trevor nor you have ever been much for propriety. “Have you all eaten yet?”

Millie’s grin has become visible now your eyes have adjusted to the light. Her green eyes have a glint of mischief in them. “Afraid so, ma’am.”

Thus, Millicent “Millie” Maynard, your chambermaid, helps you get dressed and ready for the day. She doesn’t have much of a gentle touch like Flora’s (your chambermaid back at Carter House in London), but she does always carry an upbeat and positive attitude with her. It’s infectious. Most importantly, Millie can handle herself in a fight. She’s the daughter of a blacksmith and, in her own words, “grew up playing with swords instead of dolls”. Trevor was skeptical at the girl’s claims when she arrived at your doorstep, even though she already came with a blade on her hip. You asked him to give her a chance, to let her show both of you whether or not she was truly capable of fighting with a sword. After disarming Trevor five times, Millie was hired.

“An exciting day ahead, ma’am?” Millie asks while brushing your hair. You wince whenever she brushes it with just a _little_ too much vigour, feeling like she’s trying to rip out your hair by the roots. You know she’s not doing it on purpose, but it’s painful nonetheless.

“Depends on what you call— _ow—_ ” “Sorry!” “—Exciting.” You shoot Millie a glare, who smiles sheepishly before continuing with a slightly more gentle touch. “There’s the modiste visiting around ten to get me fitted for new dresses,” you say, glancing at Millie. She just hums, not needing additional explanation. You tend to wear through your wardrobe quicker than most ladies. She’s seen you return home in the dead of night wearing ripped up, bloodstained dressed before. “Some of my auntie’s old friends are passing through the area today and insisted on visiting for tea. Which means I’ll have to entertain them this afternoon.” You sigh. “But they’ll only be here around four, I think...” Millie nods as she begins to pin up your hair. You look at her through the mirror and ask, “I was thinking of heading to the village this afternoon to do some shopping. Would you care to join me?”

Trevor had refused to take your dowry when you got married. He’d told you that he didn’t need it, and he didn’t want it either. He only wanted to marry you for you. Of course you appreciated the romantic sentiment behind it, but you also very much appreciated the extra bit of freedom it gave you. Simply put, it meant your sizeable dowry went into your own pocket. This, in turn, means that you have your own money to spend however you like, without having to consult with your husband dearest first.

Millie is almost finished with your hair. “Though I appreciate the offer, I _should_ be trying to get the blood out of the carpet in the downstairs drawing room... Especially if we’re hosting people today.” She grins at you. “I don’t think you nor Lord Belmont will appreciate it if Lady Carter’s friends start asking questions.”

Right, the “demon-bursting-through-the-window-into-the-drawing-room” incident.

“... You can just roll up the carpet and put it in storage for now, we’ll figure out how to get out the blood another time,” you tell Millie after a short silence. In the back of your mind you know that carpet will never see daylight ever again, instead becoming a glorified dust collector.

She smiles and nods. “Well, there we go. Lady Belmont is now presentable for the world,” Millie says, taking a step back to let you admire yourself in the mirror. “Good enough?”

You chuckle and smooth out your dress. “Good enough.”

Breakfast gives you the opportunity to just zone out and stare blankly ahead while chewing on your food. It’s a great way to slowly start your day, even though you regret not having Trevor with you.

The Estate finally looks like a true home again, though there are still enough of its many, many rooms that remain unused. You sometimes even still find yourself losing your way in the seemingly endless hallways. Even the country home of your aunt (or technically, of her son, your cousin (it’s hard to think of Marcus of a landowner, even though he is)) is nowhere near as big as the house you now live in. It’s obviously intended for a big family, but for now it’s just you and your husband. It’ll be a while before Trevor is comfortable enough to host any big social event here, and that’s completely fine by you. The London season and thus the season for the Marriage Mart has long since ended, and neither you nor Trevor are on it anymore — being married to each other, and all that. In fact, summer is creeping to a close, and your younger cousins Prudence and Grace have been getting more pushy with their questions about when they can _finally_ visit. Hardly a week passes that you don’t receive at least two or three letters from them. Maybe it’s about time you have them over, but you’re not sure if you have the time or the energy. Your activities and responsibilities as Lady Belmont often keep you up into the wee hours of the night, and that’s not counting the times that it’s specifically Trevor keeping you awake.

While you pour another cup of tea for yourself (the butler has better things to do, and you’re perfectly capable of fixing a cup of tea for yourself), you wonder what your husband is up to.

He’s probably fine.

Probably.

*

Trevor rolls up his sleeves. Then with a jump he grabs onto the low edge of the roof, and hoists himself up. He cusses under his breath when his foot loses grip and slips from the wall, but he eventually manages to climb onto the roof.

“Almost there, Lord Belmont,” he hears Mr Whitlock call out from below, who’s holding his coat.

“I can see the d—“ Trevor clears his throat to stop himself from using uncouth language out loud in front of the children of his tenants. He exhales harshly through his nostrils. “I can see the cat, yes.” Sitting on the roof, looking terrified, is a rather corpulent tabby cat. Trevor climbs over to the creature. “Here, kitty kitty,” he mumbles. This has to be one of the stupidest things he’s had to do so far as viscount. Or maybe the stupidest thing he’s had to do was settling that dispute over a stolen cow? (The farmer’s next-door neighbour was the thief and adamantly denied that he’d stolen the cow.) Trevor doesn’t want to think about it too much.

Eventually he manages to get the cat off the roof, though not without a fair share of claw marks on his forearms. Once “Mister Chumpkins” is safe in the embrace of the little girl, he’s showered with praise and gratitude. Trevor just gives the children and their parents a tired smile and tells them it’s no problem, really.

“And so Lord Belmont performs a heroic rescue of Mister Chumpkins,” Mr Whitlock says while they return to their horses. Trevor takes his coat from the steward, adjusting his pace so the older man can keep up with him. “Surely this is all the village will be talking about.”

“God, I hope not,” Trevor grumbles, stopping next to Mr Whitlock’s horse to help him get on. Edward Whitlock, his steward, walks with a cane. The ageing man used to be an army surgeon long ago, which was, sadly, also how he got his limp: a bullet in his left leg. Despite this, Trevor wouldn’t dare underestimate Mr Whitlock in a fight. He’s one of the few people who know that the innocent-looking cane has a blade hidden within it. Both you and Trevor could tell from the moment you met him that Mr Whitlock would make a fine steward. You felt better knowing that he would be there to help guide Trevor in his new role as viscount.

“You should be happy, Lord Belmont,” Mr Whitlock says once he’s in his saddle. “Your tenants have slowly started to forgive you for your disappearance. They could have been standing in front of your home with torches and pitchforks. Instead, they’re asking you to rescue fat cats from roofs. I have decided long ago which option I find to be preferable.”

Trevor mounts his own horse, then gives Mr Whitlock a wry smile. “You never beat around the bush when you speak, do you?”

The two men begin riding to the next home. “I truly do not see the point of doing so.”

Returning to the Estate meant picking up the responsibilities that he inherited with his title. Trevor still considers himself far too young to be Lord Belmont, but what choice does he have? Besides, your cousin, Marcus, was thrown into the same position at a far too young age as well. It took some time, but he eventually grew into his role and made a fine viscount. Trevor hopes he’ll be able to do the same.

“It still amazes me how you always appear to be frowning, Lord Belmont. Does it appeal to Lady Belmont? Or do you reserve your rare moments of not-frowning for her?”

Trevor shoots Mr Whitlock a glare. “I thought my steward was supposed to instruct me in the ways of being a good landowner, not in the ways of how I should wear my facial expressions.”

“I think the latter is just as much part of my job as the former,” Mr Whitlock says, never even needing to think for a moment to be able to provide a witty response. “I consider ensuring the well-being of your family just as important a duty as ensuring the well-being of your land.”

Trevor only gives a thoughtful hum in response.

“Speaking of which—”

Oh no, here it comes.

“— Have you already started thinking about siring an heir?” Trevor doesn’t respond immediately, and Mr Whitlock takes the silence as an opportunity to continue speaking. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell _you_ and Lady Belmont how that would work—” Trevor groans “—but if my arithmetic is correct, and it virtually always is, it _has_ been almost three months since you’ve been married, and Lady Belmont is still not with child.”

“I think this conversation is something that should be reserved for my wife, very much like my moments of not-frowning,” Trevor grumbles.

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly. I’m just reminding you to have the conversation.” Mr Whitlock shoots Trevor a look that he finds hard to ignore. “ _Soon_.”

*

You run into Trevor’s arms, who picks you up and lifts you up to kiss you. When he sets you down again you give him a giddy smile, then glance at the dining table. There’s suspiciously little silverware laid out.

“Are we not dining with the staff tonight?”

He lifts your hand so he can press a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist. “It’s just the two of us tonight. I wanted some time alone with you.”

You hum in approval. You’re sure there’s something more behind it, but... it’s a damn good answer, and you’ll take it. Your attention is pulled to the angry red scratches on his skin. “Will those be your new battle scars?” you ask, running a finger over his forearm.

“Mhm. From a terrible monster called Mister Pumpkin. Or something along those lines, anyway...”

You raise a brow.

“It was a cat,” he explains.

While eating, you tell each other about your day. Trevor regales you with the very entertaining story of the rather overweight tabby cat he had to rescue from a roof, and you tell him about the ladies you had to host for afternoon tea — who all seemed very disappointed that Lord Belmont wasn’t home.

“Aren’t they all married?” Trevor asks, raising his brows as he raises his glass to his lips.

“Yes, but perhaps you might recall that they still have _eyes._ And perhaps you might also recall that you’re very pleasant to look at.”

He grins, and you know you’ve made a mistake by inflating his ego too much. “Am I now?”

You roll your eyes, then change the subject. Leaning towards him, you ask with an inquisitive look in your eyes, “Are you finally going to tell me why you didn’t invite the staff to join us for supper tonight? I know there’s _something_. There has to be.”

“Only if you tell me again that I’m very pleasant to look at.”

“Trevor, you are a fiend.”

“I love you too.”

You let out an annoyed groan, but before you can sink back into your chair Trevor has grabbed your wrist. He pulls you onto his lap and puts his arms around your waist. You huff. Trevor presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Come now, don’t be upset. I was just teasing you,” he says with a playful smile. “Forgive me?”

You flash him a mischievous grin. “Only if you tell me why it’s just the two of us at supper tonight.”

Trevor laughs, clearly amused. “Very well.” He looks at you with a smile, but it’s not as cheeky as it was before. In fact, he looks rather serious. You stay quiet as you wait for him to start talking. Carefully he begins, “I’ve been... thinking. We’ve been married for a few months now.” He parts his lips to continue, but no words come out for a moment as he’s clearly trying his best to formulate his sentences the right way. “I’m... I am the last living member of my family, which means I’m the only one who can pass on the Belmont name and—”

“You want to start trying for a baby?” you blurt out.

His cheeks redden, which is a rare but welcome sight. “Well. It’s not like we haven’t been _trying_ ,” he mumbles. “I just thought maybe we should try with a little more... purpose. That is,” he turns to look at you with an earnest expression. “Only if you want, of course.”

Trevor realises in that moment that he’d let his family line die with him if you said no to having children. He simply loves you that much, and couldn’t even imagine forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do. However, lucky for him and for the Belmont clan, you have different things on your mind. While Trevor was talking, you imagined him as a father. Tenderly holding a baby in his arms and kissing their forehead. Playing with a toddler by throwing them up in the air and catching them. Teaching a young child how to fight with a sword, and dramatically pretending to go down in a practice fight. The Estate would be filled with so much laughter and love, and immediately you know that that’s _exactly_ what you want with and for Trevor.

“Yes,” you tell him, nodding. You can’t help but start to smile. “Yes, Trevor. Let’s try for a baby.”

A sense of relief and so, so much happiness floods him. He cups your face with his hands and kisses you over and over and over, repeatedly declaring his love for you while you stifle your laughs. However, as things tend to go with Trevor, the kisses slowly turn a little more passionate, a little more fervent, and a little more erotic than they ought to be at the dinner table. You close your eyes and moan his name against his lips. His body tenses up beneath you.

“Maybe we should try for a baby right here and right now.”

Trevor quickly gets up from his chair, carrying you in his arms, which earns a yelp from you. You giggle. “Trevor! Maybe you _shouldn’t_ , lest the housekeeper decides to shoot us.”

He grins, kissing your neck. “Of course. To the bedroom, then. I’ll have my dessert there.”


	2. Silver Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hearing the plea of one of their tenants, Lord and Lady Belmont go out hunting at night. Seeing her target, Lady Belmont hesitates when pulling the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on more of a roll with writing than I had expected, so here’s an extra chapter before the weekend! It starts off with smut, but I can promise you this chapter will already be a rollercoaster. Enjoy!

Trevor carries you all the way up to the bedroom. His lips only ever leave yours for air, or when he almost trips over something. He carelessly kicks open the door, then gently lays you down on the bed. Even when he’s desperate and needy, he’s always careful not to hurt you. You watch him in breathless anticipation, feeling beyond excited, your heartbeat already quickening in your chest. Trevor closes the door. When he walks back to the bed, he makes quick work of the buttons of his shirt and tosses it aside. You can’t help but bite your bottom lip while you watch him. He looks so devastatingly handsome in the demure candlelight. His strong, muscular torso, the countless scars on his fair skin, the dark hair on his chest, and the way his striking blue eyes look at you like he needs you like he needs air. To think that he’s all yours. You’ve seen and done this countless times before already, but it never ceases to thrill you. Besides, this time is different. This time is with purpose beyond just lovemaking.

Your lips are captured by your husband’s, who has crawled on top of you. With closed eyes you let a quiet moan escape from your throat. Trevor’s hand sneaks behind your back, roughly tugging at the buttons of your dress to take it off. He wants you so desperately right now that it’s almost making him feel feverish.

“Trevor,” you breathe out against his lips, “Be gentle.”

He breaks the kiss and raises his brows.

You grin. “With the dress, I mean.”

Trevor hums in approval, then begins to properly undo the buttons rather than just pawing at them in the hopes they’ll come loose. The dress slips off your shoulders and the neckline slips down your chest. Trevor’s eyes widen when he’s immediately treated to a full view of your breasts, your nipples already perky with arousal. “No chemise?” he purrs with a positively devilish smile on his face.

“The cut of the dress didn’t allow for one,” you say, trying to sound innocent.

Roughly he pulls the dress further down and then tosses it aside, leaving you in just your stockings and slippers. “I’ll have to tell your modiste to make more dresses like this,” he tells you, leaning down to kiss the valley between your breasts. You giggle, but it’s quickly replaced with a pleased and shuddering exhale when Trevor’s mouth finds its way to your nipple. His tongue is hot and wet, lazily and deliberately licking a circle around the perky bud. You’re feeling needier with the second. You so desperately want to reach between your legs, but Trevor’s own leg is planted firmly between them and is keeping them apart _and_ your hand away.

“Trev,” you whisper, your back arching as his hands and mouth worship your body. He doesn’t respond. You repeat his name, a little more urgently this time. “Trevor. Shoes.”

Trevor pulls his mouth away from your skin, and immediately you miss the feeling of his tongue. However, your distaste — no, _hatred_ for shoes in bed will always outweigh your desire for lovemaking. Your husband rolls his eyes and haphazardly kicks off his own boots, then removes your slippers from your feet. He pauses as he looks down at you, in such a mess simply because of his hands and mouth. He can’t help but feel a swell of pride. Wearing a wicked smile he slowly traces his fingers up your leg, over the sheer fabric of your stockings. “I think,” he says as he reaches the edge of the fabric around your thigh, “we should leave these on.” His fingers move to the bare skin of your inner thigh, making you shiver. All you can do is nod and give him a desperate look.

You want him now. He’s your husband, dammit, so you’ll let him know too. “Make love to me,” you whisper to him.

Though still filled with lust and arousal, the look on his face softens. He nods, then removes his breeches so there’s nothing between the two of you anymore. You feel the heat of his body as he lies down on top of you, his forearms planted firmly by your side so he doesn’t crush you with his weight. That would be very unromantic. (It has happened before.) Trevor leans forward to kiss you. It’s slow and sensual, and so full of raw love. This time is truly different from all other times. You love Trevor with every fibre of your being, and you know he feels the same way for you. There’s nobody you’d rather have as the father to your children. Gently you bite on his bottom lip, and they part. Your tongue slips into his mouth, drawing out a quiet moan from him. You love the way your lips mould together and you swear that you can tell exactly which brandy he had at dinner just from the taste of his lips.

You break the kiss and inhale sharply when you feel Trevor press the stiffness of his arousal against your opening. He swallows thickly, forehead resting against yours. His eyes search your face for any indication that you might not want this anymore, because if that would be the case then he swears he’ll stop even if it would be the most difficult thing in the world for him to do. However, he finds no hesitance or second thoughts in the way you smile at him, only excitement. You give him a small nod.

His breathing is ragged with desire as strokes himself. Using his own spit in his hand he lubricates his length, because God forbid he makes you uncomfortable or actually hurts you by going in dry. You hold your breath with anticipation as he aligns himself. Then he pushes in, and you arch your back while you let out a quiet, content moan.

“Does it hurt?” Trevor asks, always worrying about you.

“No,” you say, kissing his nose. You put your arms around his neck, then grin wickedly. “Come on, Lord Belmont. Time to sire an heir.”

He looks away with a snort, trying to contain his laughter. “Good God, woman. Don’t say it like that. That’s terrible.”

You kiss his cheek and whisper to him, “Less talking, more lovemaking.”

So that’s exactly what Trevor does, his hips quickly finding a rhythm that has your name rolling from his own tongue like a prayer. “Christ, you feel amazing,” Trevor breathes out between pants. His knuckles have gone white from gripping the sheets next to your head. You look like a dream, desire swirling through your half-lidded eyes, your lips swollen from kissing and slightly parted as you pant and mewl and moan his name. “I love you,” he blurts out without thinking, and truly, he doesn’t have to think about it.

“I love you too,” you respond, pulling him closer to you so you can kiss him feverishly. Like a coil in your abdomen winding tighter and tighter, you feel your climax creep closer with every thrust of Trevor’s hips. You can tell that he won’t last much longer either.

You move your fingers to Trevor’s mouth. Without telling him he immediately knows what to do. He lets out a pleased moan as he takes your index and middle finger between his lips, gently sucking on them. Then you slip your hand down between your bodies and start touching yourself. You let out a shuddering breath. You close your eyes and focus on the sounds of Trevor’s pants and grunts, the sounds of your lovemaking, the sounds of your own shallow breathing. You swallow thickly as Trevor nuzzles the crook of your neck, sucking and kissing the delicate skin. You smell his hair, and his sweat, and that musk that you can’t find the words for to describe but is so distinctly _him_. You love that smell, and you love that it lingers on the sheets even after he’s left for the day, and you love _him_ , God, you love him so much you feel like you might die if you had to spend another day apart.

Then your body stiffens, and you feel yourself topple over the edge. You gasp, your climax sending waves of pleasure through your body in pulses, and with how you’ve completely tensed up Trevor can’t help but follow quickly after. He digs his fingers into the mattress as he groans, finishing inside you.

You both take a moment to catch your breath.

Then Trevor slips out of you, and rolls over onto the bed next to you. For someone who hunts monsters, he’s always awfully exhausted after lovemaking. You honestly would expect him to have more stamina. Yet there he is, indistinguishable from a pile of jelly. You move onto your side to kiss his forehead. He just grunts, then pulls you against his body to hug you tight.

“How about round two?” you ask with a cheeky smile.

“Ask me again in fifteen minutes,” he drawls.

*

You’re in a good mood the next morning, and so is Trevor. It’s in part, of course, because he delivered on your requested round two last night, but also because today is a rare day where neither of you have any responsibilities. This means sleeping in, and the nice weather means you’re having breakfast outside. Mr Clark fixes your tea for you the way you like it. “I hope the breakfast pleases you, Lord and Lady Belmont. Be sure to eat plenty.” In a clarifying tone, but likely just to make a jab at the both of you, he adds, “For the energy you doubtlessly need to replenish after last night’s activities.”

You try not to choke on your toast. Trevor looks up from the newspaper he’s reading to glare at your butler. Gruffly he says, “You know, Mr Clark, any other household would have fired you for that kind of attitude.”

“I know,” he says airily. “Which is why I’m working here, and not at any other household.”

Trevor bristles, but drops the subject. He knows better than to try to win from your sharp-tongued butler. You lift your teacup to hide your grin. Despite the attitude (which you can’t help but find very amusing, especially when it’s directed at Trevor and not at you), Morris Clark does his work well. On top of that, he used to be a fencing instructor. Just like with Millie, Trevor was initially skeptical of the rather tall and lanky Mr Clark. Also just like with Millie, Mr Clark was hired after putting Trevor in a bad mood. That is to say, Mr Clark cut multiple holes into Trevor’s clothes with his rapier just to prove a point.

Your hand reaches out for a biscuit, and you see another reaching out for a biscuit too. “Morning, Lord Belmont, Lady Belmont!” Bartley says, tipping his straw hat with his free hand. The other hand has just snagged a biscuit from your plate. Trevor looks up again from his newspaper. This time it’s to give Bartley an incredulous look, but he makes a mistake by not saying anything. So Bartley simply takes a bite from the biscuit in blissful ignorance, completely unaware of Lord Belmont’s disapproval.

Trevor isn’t the only one who disapproves. “Haven’t you had enough of those already?” Mr Clark asks, shooting a pointed look at Bartley’s rather pudgy form.

“Nonsense! I need the energy,” Bartley protests. “It’s a lovely day. Lots to do.”

You glance at the garden. You’re not so sure about that. Bert “Bash’em Bert” Bartley, your gardener, keeps the gardens at the Estate in perfect condition at all time. You have no idea how he does it, really, because he’s more often “hardly working” than “working hard”. The “Bash’em Bert” part of his name comes from the fact that he used to be a professional boxer. Now he spends his retirement as a gardener at the Estate, which mostly consists of smelling the flowers and stealing your biscuits at any opportunity. Not that you mind, really. In fact, it rather reminds you of how Prudence and Grace used to steal food from your plate all the time.

Mr Clark and Bartley continue their quarrel about Bartley’s decision to nick a biscuit from your plate, which you watch with much amusement. Trevor looks like he’s trying to read the paper, but you can tell that he’s listening to the conversation as well: his eyes aren’t moving.

Your morning entertainment comes to an abrupt end when Millie comes running. She bobs a quick curtsy, then says, “There’s someone here to see you, Lord Belmont. One of your tenants, a Boris Whitfield. Something about his livestock.”

All eyes are on Trevor. He folds up the newspaper. “Bring him in. I’ll receive him here.”

“As you wish,” Mr Clark says, then quickly leaves with Millie in tow.

Bartley tips his hat. “That’s my cue, I’m guessing! Good day, Lord Belmont, Lady Belmont.” You want to call out to him to tell him he has crumbs on his face, but it’s too late. He’s already toddled off further into the gardens. Next to you, you hear Trevor grumble something about “not even having finished his tea yet” under his breath.

The tenant walks onto the patio, then bows. “Lord Belmont, Lady Belmont, please pardon my intrusion.”

Trevor waves it off. “It’s of no concern, Lady Belmont and I simply slept in longer than we should have.” He glances at you with a boyish smile, but his expression is completely serious when he turns his attention back to the farmer. “Whitfield, was it? Tell me, what did you need?”

“Well, you see, Lord Belmont,” he begins, looking a little unsure, “It’s about my sheep. For the past few months, there’s sometimes been these animal attacks at night. I don’t know what kind of animal, probably a feral dog or something, but when it happens, I’ll sometimes lose three or four ewes.” His eyes go a little misty. “I hear nary a peep from the flock when it happens. Then the next morning, ‘s all blood and gore everywhere.”

You feel your heart ache with sympathy for the man. Just by listening to him talk it’s clear that he cares a great deal for his flock. Trevor seems to share your concern. “How often do these attacks happen?”

“Just... Well, usually just once a month, Lord Belmont.”

The expression on Trevor’s face hardens. “I see. I’ll look into it immediately. You have my word.”

Whitfield looks relieved. “Thank you, Lord Belmont. We could always rely on your family to keep the lands around here safe for both man and animal. I’m grateful that we can rely on you, too.”

Trevor feels his chest tighten. He puts on an apprehensive smile. “Of course.”

*

You close the door to Trevor’s study behind you, then walk further inside. Trevor doesn’t look up. Your husband is seated at his desk and poring over papers and open books, clearly engrossed in something related to Whitfield’s livestock. There’s a frown of concern etched onto his face, making him look older than he actually is. You think to yourself that he looks rather handsome when he’s focussed like that. Then again, you always think that he looks handsome.

After walking over to stand behind him, you put your hands on his shoulders to give them a squeeze. “You’re so tense,” you murmur.

“It’s a werewolf.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

Trevor sits up straight, sighing as he sinks into his chair. You’ve removed your hands from his shoulders. “The thing that’s been going after Whitfield’s livestock. It’s a werewolf. I asked Whitfield for specific dates, and I’ve just cross-referenced them with the moon phases of the past months. All attacks happened during a full moon. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Oh,” you say quietly.

You’re not sure if he really hears or registers that you’ve responded. The situation seems to be weighing on his mind more heavily than you had expected it would. How is this different from hunting any other monster, you wonder. Is it because one of his tenants is directly involved this time? He continues, “We’ll have to kill it before it does more damage to the flock. Or worse,” his expression turns grim, “starts attacking people instead.” He turns to look at one of the open books on his desk. “The next full moon is in just a few days. There’s no way we’ll be able to distinguish a werewolf from a normal human when it’s not transformed, so that’ll be the only time we can hunt it.”

You swallow thickly. Killing the werewolf feels wrong, somehow. “Do we have to kill them?” you blurt out without thinking.

Trevor finally turns to look at you. His eyes search your face as if trying to understand what you mean with your question, but you can’t meet his gaze nor say anything more. “It,” he says slowly. “We have to kill _it_. It’s not human. It’s not wise to think of werewolves as human.”

“But they are, aren’t they? When they’re not transformed?” you say quickly, looking at him. Your heart hammers in your chest, but you feel like this is the right thing to say. The right thing to do. You might not know as much about the supernatural as your husband does, but you _have_ been doing your homework down in the Hold beneath the mansion. It’s a treasure trove of knowledge, and you'd honestly be a lousy Lady Belmont if you hadn't been doing your homework. Before Trevor can say anything, you add, “And they can’t control their transformations, right? They might not even be doing it on purpose.”

“Whether it intends to kill or not, the fact of the matter remains that it _has_ killed, and it _will_ kill again,” Trevor says, his expression cold and steely. You hate it when he looks at you like that, as if he’s not allowing himself to show how he truly feels about something. You want him to be open with you, but he’s just distancing himself. “It’s my— no, _our_ duty to protect _our_ family’s lands. That includes protecting the property of our tenants. I understand where your sympathy for the creature comes from, but that does not mean it isn’t misplaced. They might look like us when they’re not transformed, but that doesn’t mean they _are_ like us.” With a low voice he adds, “You wouldn’t have the same sympathy for a vampire, would you?”

The words cut deep, because you know he specifically means the vampires who killed his family. It feels like he intended to hurt you just to make you concede and admit that he’s “right”. It almost makes you see red with anger. Almost. You coolly say, “No, I wouldn’t. Because a vampire can choose what they sate their thirst with: human blood, or animal blood. A werewolf cannot control their transformations, and therefore cannot control what they do when they are transformed.”

“That still doesn’t make werewolves remotely human nor deserving of sympathy.”

“Your rhetoric,” you say, your eyes ablaze with fury, “sounds a little too similar to that of the people who would see our society divided based on the colour of our skin.”

Trevor goes quiet. You’re right. He knows you’re right, and he knows that he hurt your feelings. The people you spoke about considered those with darker skin to be less intelligent, more animalistic. He was not so blind that he did not see the parallels between their ideals and how he talked about werewolves. Still, werewolves are monsters, and Trevor is a monster hunter. It killed livestock, and could move on to humans at any moment’s notice. His chest tightens with anxiety at the thought of it killing his tenants. The tenants whose safety he’s responsible for. Trevor rubs the bridge of his nose, feeling a dull, throbbing headache between his temples. “I know. I’m sorry, it wasn’t right of me to talk that way,” he concedes. You wished he’d stopped talking there, but of course he doesn’t. He continues, “But the werewolf has still killed livestock repeatedly. It is a danger to our tenants and their property, and has to die.”

You stand up a little straighter. “Are you so cruel that you would sentence a person to death if they killed a sheep?”

He looks at you incredulously. “It’s not the same.”

“Then we have nothing more to talk about.”

You turn on your heel and walk to the door of his study, remaining completely calm. Trevor quickly stands up, legs of the chair scraping over the wooden floor. “I will hunt it down and kill it, with or without your approval,” he says firmly, clenching his fists.

“I know,” you say. Then with the click of the door shutting, you’re gone.

*

You didn’t speak much to each other the next few days, beyond the short exchanges that were necessary to keep each other in the loop. You slept with your backs turned to each other. You spent your free time in different rooms. You had breakfast separately, and had supper with the staff in awkward, painful silence.

All those reasons and more are why Trevor is surprised to see you in the front room on the night of the full moon.

Your rifle is slung over your shoulder.

“You’re coming with me?” he asks, and immediately feels stupid for asking when the answer is obvious.

You nod in response, but don’t say anything else.

He wants to say something, to apologise for his behaviour, to ask if the way you’ve been leading your lives separately can finally end because it’s killing him to have you so close to him yet so far away. However, he doesn’t. Now is not the time. So he simply holds the door open for you, and you’re on your way into the cool summer night.

The air is humid from the rain that fell earlier today, freeing all sorts of rich scents from the earth. You ride your horses towards Whitfield’s farm in silence. The quiet chirping of crickets forms a constant backdrop to the wind rustling the grass and trees and the clip-clopping of hooves. Your chest feels tight with anxiety, and it’s hard to ignore the lump in your throat. You’re not sure why you decided to come with Trevor. You had been and still are adamantly against killing the werewolf — there _have_ to be other solutions to this problem — yet here you are, carrying a gun loaded with silver bullets. After some introspection you conclude that it simply felt wrong to let him go on his own. Since you’ve been married, you’ve brought down every single demon and monster together. You made a vow to him. You’ll uphold it no matter what.

When you arrive at the pasture, you dismount from your horses and tie them to the fence. Some members of the flock of sheep wake up when they hear you and look at you curiously, but they don’t move nor do they make a sound.

You look at Trevor, who has already reached for his whip. He’s surveying the area, especially taking his time to scan the edge of the nearby forest for any movement. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment you’re taken aback by the raw emotion in the look on his face. He swallows thickly, and he looks like he’s about to open his mouth to say something, but you’re not sure if it’s about the hunt.

“What do we do now?” you quickly ask with a low voice. Of course you want to talk to him and reconcile, but you're not sure if you can without a fair share of tears. There’s a time and place for everything.

Trevor looks away, then turns his attention back to the forest. “If it’s not out here yet, it’ll be hiding between the trees. Likely waiting for an opportunity to strike.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “We should split up.”

“You can’t be serious,” Trevor says, looking at you as if you’d just sprouted a second head.

“We’ll cover more ground that way,” you argue. “Besides, I’m the one here with silver bullets. I’ll be fine.” He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with, “I’ll be _fine_. I promise.”

Trevor closes his mouth, then nods stiffly.

You split up.

You’re grateful for your boots and your cloak while you push through the undergrowth of the forest and the low-hanging branches. There’s not much point in being very quiet, you think as a branch snaps beneath your foot. The werewolf has probably smelled you long ago. It’s likely hard for any creature with a heightened sense of smell to _not_ smell you. You had a bath just a few hours earlier, and the scent of soap and lavender clings to your skin. Still, you wonder if it’s not showing itself on purpose. The thought that it might be afraid of you has crossed your mind. You had revelled in the thrill of being feared by monsters — _real_ monsters. This hunt gave you none of that kind of satisfaction.

Your finger moves to the trigger when you hear something move behind you. You lift the gun then whip around, closing one eye to take aim.

Then you slowly lower the gun.

Further into the forest, Trevor can’t keep his focus on the hunt. His thoughts keep coming back to you. Why did you want to split up? It makes no sense to him. You were right of course, you _do_ cover more ground this way, but it didn’t feel right. You never split up during hunts. You always fought side by side, throwing quips at each other while tearing through monsters and painting the ground with their blood. You always had each other’s backs in fights too, warning the other for incoming danger, or pointing out a weak spot to make use of. Trudging alone through the forest feels wrong.

His blood turns to ice when he hears a gunshot.

His legs have already started moving before he can even think about what might have happened, running as fast as he can in the direction of the sound. He’s never been much of a religious man, but for the first time in a long while he finds himself praying for your safety. He curses at himself, how could he be so stupid as to agree to splitting up?

He calls out your name when he sees you, then spots the werewolf scampering off, fleeing. For a split second, just a split second, he thinks that he should go after the werewolf. However, then he thinks about the possibility that you could be injured, and all thoughts of chasing down the werewolf are cast aside. Trevor rushes over to you, putting his hands on your shoulders as he looks you over. “Are you alright?” he asks, worry written all over his face.

“Yes,” you say hoarsely. You swallow thickly. “I missed. Got them in the left leg.”

Trevor feels a pit form in his stomach.

You’re lying to him.

He's sure of it. You're lying to him. He feels nauseous. It’s not that he thinks that you could never miss. It’s that he simply can tell that you’re not speaking the truth. You hadn't missed, you hit the exact spot you had intended to hit. You fired a non-lethal shot and let the werewolf get away. Yet he’s got no way to prove it, and he knows you’ll deny his accusations. His breathing turns shallow. Christ, why would you lie to him like that? His grip on your shoulders tightens momentarily, and he looks at you with so much hurt in his eyes that you’re suddenly so, so afraid that you’ve done irreparable damage to your relationship.

He weakly lets go of your shoulders.

“Alright,” he says, keeping his voice quiet and even. “Let’s head home.”

Your mouth feels dry. Nervously you lick your lips. “There might be a trail of blood,” you say in an attempt to try to make him feel better, but the moment the words leave your mouth you know it won’t work.

Trevor shakes his head. Without another word, he begins walking back to the horses. You follow him, but stay a few steps behind. You can’t bring yourself to look at him.


	3. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Belmont reconciles with her husband after she makes a heartbreaking discovery. In one of the following days, her life is changed forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m on more of a roll with writing than I had anticipated! I think I’ll be able to update this twice a week, maybe three times if I’m particularly productive. I’ve got everything up to chapter 7 written now, but I’m still slowly tweaking the chapters as I proceed.
> 
> Also, I can finally add Alucard to the character tags T7T
> 
> Enjoy!

You need time away from the Estate. You need fresh air, to be able to breathe without feeling that godawful tightness in your chest. The guilt of your actions weighs heavily on your shoulders. Trevor didn’t even say good morning to you after you had woken up. He simply got up, got dressed, and left the bedroom. He knows, of course. Yet for some reason he hadn’t gotten angry. He didn’t shout, he didn’t demand to know why you had done what you did. He just became more distant. You blink away the tears forming in your eyes. Some part of you wishes that he would just scream at you. Then at least he’d be saying _something_.

So you’re out for a ride, letting your horse take you wherever she likes. It’s only when you hear the baaing of sheep that you realise you’ve gone all the way to Whitfield’s farm. The old man waves at you when he sees you approach. “Good day, Lady Belmont!”

You can’t help but smile at his chipper mood. Pulling in the reigns, you signal to your horse to stop. “Good day, Whitfield. You seem to be in a good mood today.”

Whitfield nods enthusiastically. “I sure am. We’ve gone a whole month now without any animal attacks. I think that might be a good sign! Thank Lord Belmont for me, will you?”

“I’ll be sure to pass on the message,” you tell him with a chuckle, though it’s a little bittersweet. Normally you might joke about how you’re the viscountess and not a messenger, but now you’re just worried about how Trevor will react when you come home with the news. Will he be happy? You have no idea.

Somebody exits the farmhouse. Whitfield looks over to him, then explains to you, “That’s my farmhand, Thomas. Or rather, he was. He’s a fine, hardworking lad, but he got into a hunting accident last night, he said. Shot in the leg.” Whitfield sighs wistfully. “I’m afraid it means I can’t keep him around any longer. I’m not running a charity, after all. He’s headed to the village to look for work elsewhere.”

You feel like you want to throw up. Thomas, a young man who can’t be much older than your seventeen-year-old cousins Prudence and Grace, slowly limps over with a small bag slung over his shoulder. He has a difficult look on his face, clearly in pain every time he sets down his left foot. He’s much skinnier than a boy his age should be, with mousy brown hair and amber eyes. So amber, in fact, you’d almost say they’re yellow.

He freezes when he sees you, and you want to do nothing more than crawl into a hole and die. Does he recognise you from the night before? Or did he simply freeze up because you’re the viscountess? You’re not sure which it is, and though it’s still not ideal, you pray that it’s the latter.

“Thomas, don’t just stand there and gawk. This is Lady Belmont, the viscount Lord Belmont’s wife,” Whitfield says. You nod stiffly and smile.

“Good day, Lady Belmont,” Thomas says with a small voice, bowing. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

You want to scream in frustration, but you don’t. “Whitfield told me you were heading to the village. Would you like to ride with me? My horse is more than strong enough to carry a second person.”

Thomas’s eyes widen. “I would never want to impose—”

“Nonsense,” you interject, your voice a little raspy. You clear your throat. “Whitfield told me about your hunting accident.” You feel disgusting, but you need to speak with Thomas alone. “It would be cruel of me to let you walk to the village on your own when you are hurt. Please, I insist.”

Whitfield beams at you. “You are as kind as you are beautiful, Lady Belmont.”

After some hesitation, Thomas nods and murmurs a "thank you", then painstakingly climbs onto the horse. He keeps as much as a distance from your back as he can, but you’re not sure if it’s because he’s doing it out of respect or because he’s afraid of you.

Your horse walks to the village with a slow and steady pace. For a long while, you ride in silence. There’s not a single word from Thomas, leaving you alone with your thoughts as your clammy hands grip the reigns. You’re convinced the sweat of your palms will soak through your gloves before you even near the village. You’re ruminating on what you could say, what you could _do_. Should you at least comment on the weather to break the silence? The possibility always exists that he hadn’t recognised you, and was simply being quiet because—

“Soap and lavender,” Thomas mumbles behind you. You tense up. As if it needed clarification, he adds, “I recognised your smell.”

“I’m sorry for shooting you,” you say hoarsely, not daring to look over your shoulder and face him.

Thomas doesn’t respond at first, and you can’t see his face so you’re not even sure if he heard you. Then he says, “You do not have to apologise. I suppose I should be thanking you for allowing me to escape.” Without having to look you can tell that he’s wearing a wry smile when he continues, “I doubt your husband would have offered me the same kindness.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just nervously hum in response. After some silence, you ask him, “Are you truly going to look for work in the village?”

“Heavens, no,” he says with a dry laugh. “I don’t think I’ll be able to find work here that will keep me from going hungry again. It’s... When I’m not hungry, I can manage, you know? I know you hunt people like me, but I hope you understand.”

“I do,” you mumble, feeling crushed by the guilt. “I wish—“ You want to tell him that you wish you could do more for him. Then you realise that you _could_ , you could offer him work. Work that pays enough. You could make sure that he never has to go hungry again, and that every full moon he can safely isolate himself from civilisation until it’s safe for him to return. Then you think about Trevor, and you think about how he’d look at you if you brought the very werewolf you let escape to your doorstep. To _his_ doorstep. Would he be angry? Or would he just be hurt, quietly turning Thomas away? No matter the outcome, you realise that nothing good can come from it. So, hoarsely you say, “I wish I could do more for you.”

Thomas is silent for a while. “You’ve already done plenty for me by letting me live.”

*

You lied to him.

You lied to him, to his face, without even blinking.

It had crushed him, and even now he’s still at a loss for what to do or how to feel. He understands, of course. He sees your perspective clear as day, but God, he’d never imagined that you’d actually _lie_ to him to get your way. He knows he’s stubborn, and firmly set in his ways, and more often than not just plain _difficult_ , but...

But what?

He sinks a little further into his chair.

How miserable he must look, Trevor thinks to himself with a bitter smile. When he’d asked Mr Clark to bring him a brandy, he had braced himself for the butler’s infamous snide remarks. Yet there had been none at all, not a single mention about Lord Belmont already drinking at the current hour of the day. Mr Clark had simply nodded and fulfilled his request, then left without another word.

Regarding the empty glass, Trevor wonders if he should call for another. Or maybe he should start keeping liquor in his study, just so he can have a drink whenever he wants. Then he shakes his head, even though he’s alone and there’s nobody there to see him. You knew about his vices and had specifically asked him _not_ to keep liquor in his study. Well, it was more of a gentle suggestion, really, but Trevor took it as a serious request that he still intends to fulfil. His chest tightens. He would do anything for you. Though now he wonders why he couldn’t bring himself to let the werewolf live at your request. Does his duty truly come before his love and devotion for you? He had told himself time and time again that the Belmont line would end with him if you didn’t want any children. Of course, he thinks bitterly, it’s easy for him to say that since you _do_ want children.

He stares ahead, vaguely taking in the wooden floors and the way the sunlight shines on them through the windows. You had argued here, in his study. He told you he’d kill the werewolf with or without your approval, and you’d said that you knew.

Then suddenly, as if something clicks into place, Trevor understands why you lied. You lied to him because you _know_ he puts his duty, his family’s duty, above his love for you. Even if you had begged and pleaded, you knew that he would kill the werewolf regardless. Because that is what he is supposed to do as a Belmont, and he couldn’t change that, not even for the love of is life. The thought terrifies him. Is that how it should be? Is that what he _wants_? When his family had been alive, he hadn’t been under so much pressure. He would have easily been able to make sacrifices, big or small, for the sake of love, because there would be another Belmont to pick up the slack.

He does not have that kind of luxury anymore.

Trevor realises that his heart isn’t in pieces because you had lied to him. It’s in pieces because you had felt compelled to lie to him. You had felt that it was the only option, the only way you would get even the slightest chance at trying to solve this _your_ way, and the worst part is that you had been right. Did he truly only have himself to be angry at?

The door to his study opens, and Trevor is immediately on his feet. He swallows thickly when he sees you. There's an expression on your face that he finds difficult to read. With a quiet, demure voice that doesn't suit you at all you ask him, "Can we talk?"

He nods quickly.

You close the door behind you, but don't move from your spot. Fidgeting with your dress you take a moment to try to find the right words. Trevor watches you in anticipation. You open your mouth and look up at him, but no words come out. He looks exhausted. After a moment of hesitation, you take a few steps closer to him, but not enough to close the distance. “It’s about the werewolf problem,” you begin carefully, watching his face for any sign that he might get upset. When you see none, you continue, “It’s been dealt with.”

“What do you mean?” Trevor asks, sounding genuinely confused.

You take a deep breath to steel your nerves. “His name is Thomas. He’s not much older than my younger cousins, by the looks of him. He’s... He’s just a boy.” You feel a lump form in your throat, and you swallow convulsively. Your voice is quiet and brittle when you say, “I saw him today while I was out for a ride. He walked with a limp, and he recognised me.”

Trevor wants to run over to you, to wrap his arms around you, to kiss you, and to whisper to you that everything will be okay, but he knows that now is not the time. So he nods to let you know that he’s listening, and he waits for you to continue.

“He’s leaving the area. Heading north to look for better work.” Your eyes have become misty with tears, but you manage to put on a wry smile as you say, “Something without livestock.” You’re met with silence and another nod from Trevor. You can’t bear the guilt any longer. “I didn’t miss,” you blurt out, bottom lip quivering. “I shot him in the leg on purpose. I just—” You burst out in tears, and Trevor has you in his arms just seconds after. “I’m so sorry,” you say, gasping for air between the sobs wracking your body. “I shouldn’t have lied, but—but he was just a _boy_ , Trevor. We would have killed a _boy_!”

“I know,” Trevor says quietly, and he truly does know because the realisation weighs heavily on his heart. “I know. I’m sorry.”

You look up at him, still breathing erratically from your sobs. “Aren’t you angry with me for lying?”

“No. Well... maybe a little,” he mumbles, stroking your hair. “I don’t know. I was mostly upset about the situation.” He wipes away your tears with his thumb, and as he speaks he realises that he’s voicing the truth that he feels in his heart. “I shouldn’t have made the decision to go after Thomas without listening to your counsel. _Actually_ listening.” He smiles, and you know in that moment that everything will be okay. “You are, after all, also a Belmont. And if there’s one good thing about the two of us being the last Belmonts, it’s that we can decide for ourselves what upholding our duty means. We can decide for ourselves when empathy should be put above tradition.”

Your heart swells with pride. “I love you,” you say, leaning up to kiss him repeatedly, your wet cheeks staining his own with your tears. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he murmurs. He cups your face with his hands and gives you an earnest look. “Just... please, promise me that there will be no more lies and no more secrets between us. Only honesty and the whole truth.”

“Yes.” You nod. Your words are barely a breath, but Trevor hears them all the same. “I promise.”

*

The Belmont Estate may not be home to the vast amount of people it _could_ be home to, but the arrival of Prudence and Grace seemed to make the large building burst with liveliness. After reconciling with Trevor, you both had agreed it was time to open your doors to your younger cousins. They arrived in less than a week after you had sent a letter inviting them. They had, of course, _not_ sent a letter in response, simply arriving on your doorstep the very moment they could.

Perhaps the biggest mistake was telling them to make themselves at home.

You’re sitting in the upstairs drawing room with Trevor, playing the pianoforte while your husband reads a book. It’s then when Miss Lynch practically throws open the door to the drawing room, storming inside without even a curtsy. This is very, _very_ out of the ordinary, because if there is anyone at the Belmont Estate who holds propriety in the highest possible regard, it would be Miss Adelaide Lynch, your housekeeper. Her dark-coloured, modest dresses are _always_ impeccable, and her greying hair is _always_ perfectly pinned back into a low bun without _ever_ a single strand hair out of place. She was initially even against dining together with you and Trevor along with the other servants but warmed up to the idea after some convincing. “Lord Belmont, Lady Belmont,” she says hastily, sounding exasperated. “It’s your cousins.”

You stop playing the pianoforte, already dreading the answer before you’ve asked your question. “What have they done now?”

“Hudson caught them snooping around in the kitchen, trying to steal food from the pantry,” Miss Lynch says, an indignant look on her face. You hardly ever see her so upset, you’re almost afraid that she might actually pull a gun on Prudence and Grace. She is a sharpshooter, after all. You wouldn’t be surprised if she had a gun hidden on her right now. She cries out, “It’s as if we do not provide them with enough food!”

Trevor glances at you, clearly amused, then gets up from the sofa after putting away his book. “Right, let’s go find those two hellions.”

“ _Trevor_ ,” you say in a chastising tone, “They’re still my cousins.”

“And yet Lord Belmont isn’t wrong,” you hear Miss Lynch mumble under her breath.

Down in the kitchens, Prudence and Grace have perfectly innocent looks on their faces. Hudson stands behind them, his large arms crossed in front of his chest. It’s a miracle that your cousins aren’t afraid of the cook, especially since Hudson is a bear of a man with a bald head and a permanent frown etched into his face. You and Trevor are about 90% sure he used to be a criminal of some sorts. When you hired him, Hudson had told you that “he won’t ask questions if you don’t ask questions”. This, of course, made you very, _very_ apprehensive to hire him, but after you had a taste of his cooking you knew that there was no way you nor Trevor would be willing to let him go. Every meal is exquisite, and you’re sure you would have gained a few pounds weren’t it for your monster hunting.

“Found them looking for sweets, Lord Belmont, Lady Belmont,” Hudson says gruffly.

You raise your brows at your cousins, looking disappointed but not surprised. “Really?”

The twins hold their chins high. “We were hungry,” Prudence says. “And we didn’t want to wait for tea time,” Grace finishes.

“Did you consider the possibility of _asking_ for food?”

“We did consider the possibility,” Grace says, nodding. “And we considered it too much of a hassle,” Prudence says. “It would be faster if we got the food ourselves,” Grace continues. “Besides,” Prudence finishes with a grin that her twin mirrors, “ _You_ told us to make ourselves at home.”

You don’t have to look at Trevor to know that he’s trying to hide a smile. Narrowing your eyes, you say to your cousins, “I know for a fact that your mother would have your hide if you did this at your own home.”

“Which is why we’re doing it here, and not there.”

“Still,” Trevor begins, stopping you before you can wring your cousins’ necks, “It would have been polite if you had at least asked Hudson first if you could have something from the pantry, instead of just grabbing it yourself.” You look at Trevor and blink, surprised at how patient he is with the girls. Of the two of you, it’s usually _him_ who has the shorter temper, not the other way around. Yet here he is, a paragon of calmness and composure. “Can you promise you’ll do that from now on?”

The twins airily concede. “... We promise.”

“And can you apologise to Hudson for snooping through the pantry without permission?”

Prudence and Grace narrow their eyes at Trevor. Then they turn to the cook and in perfect unison say, “We’re sorry for snooping through the pantry without permission.”

Hudson grunts in approval, and you look at Trevor in shock. Your husband gives you a winning smile.

It took a while, but after nightfall, your cousins had finally worn themselves out enough to retire to their guest rooms. Both Miss Lynch and Mr Clark looked incredibly relieved. You would be lying if you said that you didn’t share their sentiments at least a _little_. You love your cousins, of course, but they are a handful. You need multiple pairs of hands to manage them, you think. Yet somehow Trevor gets along with them perfectly fine, even managing to get them to concede and calm down when they’re being particularly rowdy.

“You know,” you say, turning on your side in bed to look at Trevor, “I think you’ll make a fantastic father.”

Trevor puts an arm around you, and you rest your head on his chest. “Now where did that suddenly come from?” he asks with a small, amused smile.

“It’s just... the way you’re with Prudence and Grace,” you mumble, closing your eyes while listening to his heartbeat. “And I _know_ they’re almost adults, but you and I both know that those girls still have a lot of growing up to do. They might as well still be children.” Trevor chuckles, and you feel his chest rumble with the low sound. It puts a smile on your face. “I just think you’ll be a great father.” You look up at him, a completely lovestruck look on your face. “And I can’t wait to start a family with you.”

This is all very romantic, of course, and Trevor knows that he _could_ be romantic as well, but he has another idea. A better idea, if you ask him. He rolls over on top of you, pinning you down between his strong arms. Grinning devilishly he asks, “Can’t wait, eh?”

Oh, you should have known to be more careful with your choice of words.

*

It’s a lovely day. It’s one of the last days that your cousins will be here, and you’ve taken them to the village to go shopping. It’s also the day that your life will change forever, though you don’t know that yet. Maybe it would be more romantic to say that the day you married Trevor was the day your life would change forever, but it simply wouldn’t be true. No, today is the day that your life will change forever, for better or for worse.

Prudence and Grace have tittered off into a shop, and no doubt will take far too much time to pick something of their liking to bring home. You wait for them outside, enjoying the sunshine while it lasts. It often doesn’t last. This is England, after all.

“Lady Belmont, what a surprise to see you here.”

You turn to look at the source of the voice. With the way he’d spoken to you, you had expected to see someone who you know, or at least vaguely recognise. This man is a complete stranger to you. The first thing you notice are his eyes. Just like Thomas's eyes, they're amber but so bright in colour that you'd almost call them yellow. It makes you feel uneasy. He’s tall, rather pale, and has fine blonde hair tied back with a black ribbon into a low ponytail. It’s a rather old-fashioned style, you think to yourself. Still, he knows you, and judging by his clothes and the way he carries himself, he must be a member of the aristocracy. With a careful smile, you tell him, “One could say it should not be a surprise to see me here. After all, I am the viscountess of these lands. I might have business in the village that needs my attention.”

He returns the smile, keeping it small and polite. “That is true. Still, one must also admit that it is not very common for ladies of gentle breeding to attend to business in the village. Most would leave responsibilities such as those to their husbands.”

“Some responsibilities are better left to the viscountess rather than to the viscount,” you say airily. You know that if Trevor were here, he’d give you an annoyed look. Somehow that amuses you. Looking at the stranger with an intrigued expression, you say, “I sincerely apologise, because this is awfully impolite of me, but I do not recall having met you before. I do not know who you are, whereas you do know who I am.”

“That is because we haven’t met before,” he says. He offers a small bow. “I am Adrian Tepes.”

“Lord Tepes?” you ask. You’re sure you’ve heard that name before, but you can’t for the life of you remember where.

“No,” Adrian says with a smile that you find difficult to read. You feel a shiver go down your spine and the hairs in your neck stand up. Your gut is telling you that something's not right, but you can’t put your finger on what it is about him that’s so off-putting. He’s perfectly handsome and polite, and yet... “Just Mr Tepes. Lord Tepes is my father’s title, which I’m not set to inherit for many years.”

“I see,” you murmur. You glance at the shop where Prudence and Grace are. Through the storefront’s windows, you see that they’re finally close to paying for whatever it is they’ve found. It’s the perfect opportunity to get out of this conversation and fast. “It’s a pleasure meeting you then, Mr Tepes, but I do have to return to my cousins.”

Then he speaks again, and it's as if the world has gone so quiet that you can only hear his voice and the rushing of your blood in your own ears.

“Lady Belmont, I know who killed your husband’s family.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

He looks perfectly composed.

You're starting to feel faint.

He pushes a small stack of papers in your hand, tied together with a red ribbon. This is all happening so fast. You’re too stunned to respond and he takes the opportunity to tell you with a low voice, “These letters contain everything you need to know. You can cast them into the fire when you are home, but I implore you to read them. If you do, you will also find instructions on how to find me again.” He bows. “Good day, Lady Belmont.”

He walks past you with a brisk pace, but when you finally regain your composure and whip around to demand answers to your many questions, he’s gone.


	4. Lockbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Belmont reads the letters given to her by Mr Tepes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! Finally, the revelation of what’s in the letters... This chapter is shorter than most because I wanted to highlight the importance of this scene by putting it in its own chapter. Still, I hope you enjoy it! See you next time :)

The carriage ride home had to be the longest half-hour in your life.

Prudence and Grace chattered on endlessly, not seeming to notice your dazed state. You’d occasionally manage a smile and a nod, which they took as an invitation to continue talking. For the first time in your life, you’re grateful that your younger cousins have a hard time keeping their mouths shut.

“Did you have fun today?”

You look up and blink. When did you get home? The door to the carriage is held open by the driver, and Trevor offers you his hand to help you out. Prudence and Grace are urging you to hurry up. Quickly you take your husband’s hand and step out of the carriage, your left hand gripping the bundle of papers underneath your cloak. You pray he doesn’t notice. “I had fun, yes,” you say with a reassuring smile as Trevor kisses your gloved hand. “But more importantly, Prudence and Grace had fun,” you add, trying to move the attention away from you.

Your cousins practically jump out of the carriage, ignoring the driver’s futile attempts at offering them help. “We certainly did,” Prudence says, smoothing out her dress. “Lots and lots of fun,” Grace confirms, fidgeting with the ribbon of her bonnet. “So much fun, in fact, I think we should like to return here for Christmas. And maybe we shall bring mother and Marcus along with us, that time around?”

God help me, Trevor thinks. “Your brother and I have responsibilities in parliament by the time winter rolls around,” he reminds them. “We’ll all be staying in London.”

“Well, _we_ don’t have responsibilities in parliament, and neither does Mother. So we’ll simply come here with her,” Prudence shrugs, not seeing a problem. “We’ll be able to keep ourselves busy just fine,” Grace adds, agreeing with her twin sister wholeheartedly.

Trevor looks at you, expecting you to back him up on the matter. However, it takes just one glance and he knows that that won’t be happening. You’re silent, your eyes are unfocused, and you don’t even seem to be listening to your cousins’ outrageous suggestion to stay at the Belmont Estate on their own. “We’ll continue this discussion another time,” Trevor says to your cousins, who huff and march back to the grand building. You turn your head to watch them, their departure snapping you out of your thoughts. Trevor’s hand on your shoulder draws your attention to him. “Is something the matter? You’re awfully quiet.”

You’re careful not to crumple the papers despite your iron grip on them. “I’m a little tired.” It’s not a lie, you tell yourself. However, a nagging voice in the back of your mind points out that it’s not the entire truth either. You’re hiding the entire truth in your left hand, beneath your cloak. “I think I’d like to head to our room and lie down for a bit. Will you be okay entertaining Prudence and Grace on your own?”

“Of course,” he says with a small smile. Trevor figures that that means you don’t want his company while you rest. He links his arm with your right arm and you silently thank whatever higher power is listening. “Though I don’t think I have a choice in the matter. Come, let me walk you to our room.”

You’re a bundle of nerves while walking. The only thing you can do is try to act natural and hope that your husband doesn’t notice. Should you tell him? No, it’s better if you don’t, you think. You should figure this out on your own first. Up in the bedroom, Trevor is about to take your cloak from your shoulders, but you stop him. “I think I’ll change into something more comfortable,” you quickly tell him, taking a step away from him. “On my own.”

Hurt flashes across Trevor’s eyes, and you immediately regret your words. It’s too late now, though. He nods stiffly, then says, “If there’s anything I can do for you...”

“I know,” you tell him with a genuine smile. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” After capturing your lips for a quick kiss, he leaves and closes the door behind him.

You count the seconds while you hear the sound of his footsteps recede down the hall. Then you run to the door, lock it, throw your cloak over the backrest of a chair, and stare at the bundle of papers in your hands. It almost feels like the red ribbon tied around it is _daring_ you to untie it. Your gut feeling tells you that untying the ribbon would be akin to opening Pandora’s Box. Nothing good could come from it.

...and yet.

You nervously lick your lips. Slowly you walk over to the bed and sit down on the edge.

With shaky, shallow breaths you stare down at the papers.

Shortly after you had married Trevor, he told you what he remembered of the massacre that took his family. You have only rarely seen him cry, but you clearly remember him looking completely shattered when he recounted the story. He had been out with his friends that night, drinking at an inn. His entire family had gathered at the Estate for a get-together, and he just wanted to get away from his loud relatives for a bit. When he came back home, a little more than tipsy, everyone was dead.

He had confessed to you that he has thought more than once that he should have died with them.

He knew it had been the doing of vampires. He knew how to read the clues. Yet he had never found out _who_ exactly, and _how_ , and, by God, _why_?

Now here you are, sitting in your bedroom, the possible answer to all those questions in your hand. All you have to do is to untie the ribbon, and read. Such a simple action to take, and yet your limbs feel like they’re made of lead. It takes every bit of strength you have in your body to move your hand to the ribbon. Your fingers close around the red silk.

You hold your breath, then pull.

The knot keeping the ribbon together unravels. With shaky hands, you pick up the first letter of the stack.

*

_Lord Dracula Vlad Tepes—_

_I hope this letter finds you well. It has come to my attention that I have been unable to reach you through the communication mirror as of late. I sincerely hope nothing has happened to yours. It would be most inconvenient for you, I can imagine._

_How are your wife and son faring? Well, I might hope._

_However, let me not waste any more precious ink on pleasantries that you likely do not care for. I’m writing to you regarding the Belmonts. I have one simple question:_

_Why are they still alive?_

_Surely you agree that it would be better for all of us if we were to rid ourselves of them once and for all. My sources tell me that they are gathering the entire clan at their ancestral home before the year is ended. It would be the perfect opportunity to strike._

_I humbly ask for your blessing to do so._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Carmilla_

*

Carmilla is her name, then.

You feel like you’re close to passing out or throwing up. You’re not sure which it is, because you feel light-headed and nauseous all the same. A horrible, sinking feeling has settled deep in your stomach and you wish you had cast the letters into the fire just as Mr Tepes had said you could.

Mr Tepes.

This letter is addressed to his father. Lord Dracula Vlad Tepes. You know undoubtedly that you have heard that name before _somewhere_ , but _where_? Did Trevor mention him in passing? Still, whoever Mr Tepes’s father is, you have a dreadful feeling that he’s not human...

...and that neither is Mr Tepes.

You swallow thickly, then pick up the next letter and continue reading.

*

_Carmilla—_

_My communication mirror is in functioning order. I wouldn’t know what gave you the impression that it isn’t._

_I will not give you my blessing to exterminate the Belmont clan._

_That is all I have to say on the matter._

_D.V.T._

*

Though short, that was only the second letter. There are so, so many more in the stack, and so far they honestly all leave you with more questions than answers. What are you going to do with all this information? Can you show this to Trevor? You promised him no more lies and no more secrets, but... You’re sure that reading all of this would crush him. Would keeping this from him hurt him less?

You hope so. You take a deep breath and pick up the next letter.

*

_Godbrand—_

_I would write that I hope this letter finds you well, but at this point, I am more inclined to hope that this letter finds you dead._

_Is there any particular reason why you are so unreachable through any other means? I cannot believe I have to resort to writing an actual letter instead of being able to speak to you face to face, even if through a communication mirror._

_Now to the matter at hand, and the reason why I am writing to you._

_You will surely agree with me when I say that it’s time for Dracula’s reign to end. He has grown soft in his old age and has not even shown any inclination to turn his mortal wife. The old man has to die, and I’m writing to see if I can count on your political support, but more importantly, your military support._

_If there is one good thing about the British Isles being what they are — isles — it is that you should easily be able to conduct coastal raids and keep foreign help from reaching the shores. Let me explain it in simpler terms in case you are too daft to understand what I’m trying to say: Dracula has to die, so we can turn the British Isles into a prison for the cattle. Do you see it, Godbrand? So many humans, stuck and nowhere to flee. We would never have to go thirsty again. It would be paradise._

_Leave Scandinavia, and come to Britain. For a change, I am asking you to put your boats to good use._

_I await your reply._

_Carmilla_

*

Your head is spinning. This is all too much to take in, and there’s so, so many more letters to go. This Carmilla has to be the one who orchestrated the massacre, and now she has set her sights on more ambitious plans. Have they already gone into motion? Whoever or whatever Lord Tepes is, Carmilla wants him dead, too. It must be why Adrian Tepes found you to give you these letters. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, are they not? This must be some attempt at forging an alliance, or... something.

You don’t know.

You don’t know what to do.

Letting a non-aggressive werewolf live was one thing. Allying yourselves with, what, vampires? That’s a whole other thing, and you don’t know if Trevor will even consider the idea. Would it upset him? Sadden him? Or would it only enrage him, that you’d even think of asking him something like that?

No. Not you. You haven’t asked him anything. This is Mr Tepes’ request, not yours.

Still, you can’t continue reading, not now. Not without feeling like the walls of your bedroom could cave in on you any moment now. You need to put this away, to hide this, until you know what to do.

Looking around the bedroom, you find a small lockbox that will perfectly hold the letters. You stuff them in there, together with the ribbon, and close it. Then you take a deep breath. You lock it and put the box in the back of your dresser, behind your many shoes. Trevor won’t look there, you’re sure of it.

You hold the key in your hand, the iron and weight feel like they can burn through your skin any moment. Keeping it on your person isn’t an option. Trevor is far too handsy for that, he’ll notice it within seconds.

Your eyes fall on the potted plant in the corner of the room. Perfect. You walk over, and into the soil the key goes.

It’s okay, you tell yourself. Of course you’ll tell Trevor. Eventually, just not now. You need... What you need is time. Time to figure things out, figure out what exactly is going on. You need to find Mr Tepes again. You need him to answer all the godawful questions that burn in your mind because you’re not sure if you can bear not knowing the answers. You don’t think you’ve ever been more scared in your life.

Now to find Millie. It’s going to take a long, relaxing bath and maybe a few glasses of wine for you to forget everything you’ve read — if only for today.


	5. Intrusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor walks in on his wife reading something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back to the scheduled long chapters my dudes. Thank you for all the feedback so far! The kudos and comments mean a lot to me :) I hope you enjoy today’s chapter!

Trevor loves your cousins. Really! He does. He sees them as family, and especially Marcus is like a brother to him. However, Trevor is of the opinion that sometimes you can also have too much of a good thing. Prudence and Grace are, he thinks, slowly becoming just a little too much.

He knows Mr Whitlock is perfectly capable in his role as steward. He also knows that Mr Whitlock is more than willing to take over a part of Trevor’s duties while they’re hosting guests at the Estate. Regardless, when Mr Whitlock told Trevor that he’d be visiting the homes of the tenants to collect rent, Trevor jumped on the opportunity to get out of the house. Anything to get away from the constant background noise of Prudence and Grace’s talking. ( _So_ much talking.)

He feels a little bad that he used his duties as an excuse, of course.

Oh, Hell, who is he kidding?

He doesn’t feel bad at all.

“I’m surprised you decided to come along today, Lord Belmont,” Mr Whitlock says as they ride their horses through the light drizzle of rain. “The weather isn’t particularly pleasant today.”

Despite the weather, Trevor is in a good mood. He far more enjoys being outside than cooped up in his study (or in the drawing room, entertaining guests). “It’s England, Mr Whitlock. The weather is never particularly pleasant,” Trevor tells his steward with a lazy grin. “Besides, was it not you who pointed out I should do more to gain the favour of my tenants? I thought it would help if I took a moment to speak with them and see if there’s anything they need.”

Mr Whitlock raises his brows, clearly doubting Trevor’s intentions. “Is that what you told your wife?”

“Do I pay you to be insolent, Mr Whitlock?” Trevor shoots back.

“Yes, you do, Lord Belmont. And quite handsomely so.”

The two men arrive at the first home on their route for today. A farm, belonging to the Greens. It used to look better, Trevor thinks. The paint has started chipping off, and he notices rust on places where there really shouldn’t be any rust. Trevor knocks on the front door, then waits.

The door swings open, hinges creaking loudly, revealing Mrs Green. Her eyes widen when she sees Trevor. “Oh, Lord Belmont!” she stammers, quickly fixing her greying hair and bobbing a curtsy.

“No need for the formalities, Mrs Green,” Trevor says with a chuckle. “You’ve already known me since I was in my leading strings, after all.”

Mrs Green smiles. “And what a little troublemaker you were. What brings you here today?”

“Rent, Mrs Green,” Mr Whitlock speaks up.

The woman pales, holding onto the doorframe to steady herself. Trevor gives her a concerned look. “Is something the matter?”

Mrs Green sighs, then gestures at them to enter the old farmhouse. Mr Whitlock closes the door behind them. Inside, Trevor sees that the building is slowly falling into a state of disrepair. Two buckets are placed to catch the water from the leaky roof, and that already with just a light drizzle. He can’t help but notice how quiet the farmhouse is.

“Where’s Mr Green?” Trevor asks as Mrs Green sits down in a wooden chair. “And your sons?”

“It’s about that, Lord Belmont—” “Trevor.” Mrs Green smiles, then quietly continues. “Trevor. My husband is out working the fields now, but he’s doing it by himself. Our boys have enlisted to fight for England. It’s just the two of us now.” She swallows convulsively, and Trevor realises she’s almost on the brink of tears. “They used to write almost every week, but the letters— They’ve stopped coming, and I fear the worst.”

Trevor’s chest tightens. He grew up playing with Preston and Jacob. To think that they’re soldiers now. For a moment he’s grateful that his own children will never have to become soldiers, but then the realisation dawns on him that they’ll have a far heavier burden to carry. They’ll be raised as monster hunters from the day they can hold a weapon, just like he was. Suddenly the possibility that his own children might die in combat dawns on him, creating a sinking feeling in his gut. Losing his family was already the most difficult thing he’s ever had to experience. Could he handle losing his own children?

Mr Whitlock casts his eyes down and he grips the handle of his cane a little tighter. “I’ve seen too many young men die on the battlefield. Still, I implore you to hold on to hope, Mrs Green. There’s plenty of other reasonable explanations for their letters not arriving. It’s a long way from France to England.”

She sniffles, wiping away her tears and nodding. “You’re right, of course. I’m so sorry. It’s been difficult managing the fields without our boys. My husband and I aren’t as spry as we used to be. We’ve only just managed to make ends meet, and the harvest hasn’t been exceptional...”

“It’s alright,” Trevor cuts in to save her the embarrassment of having to explain any further. “Your circumstances are most irregular. I won’t ask you to pay this season’s rent.”

Trevor doesn’t see it, but Mr Whitlock smiles proudly.

Tears spring to Mrs Green eyes again, but this time of relief. “Oh, Trevor, thank you so much. I promise you we’ll pay double next time—”

“No, none of that,” he says, shaking his head. He shrugs off his coat and rolls up his sleeves. “Now, let me see if I can do something about that leaky roof.”

*

Miraculously, you managed to act normal.

Normal enough, at least. It’s something you managed to achieve fairly easily with the help of your cousins. Not that they _knew_ they were helping, of course, but it’s hard not to banter along with them whenever they were in one of their playful moods. Which was all the time, really.

It’s why you dreaded Prudence and Grace leaving. You’ll have to act normal with nobody to rely on for help but yourself. What does acting normal even look like for you? You’re not sure anymore. You watch the carriage drive away, taking your cousins back to London. If the weather holds up, they’ll be home before the end of the day. Surely they will have lots to tell their mother and brother. Your chest tightens when you realise that you miss your family more than you had expected you would. With a half-hearted smile, you wave, though you’re not sure if your cousins can still see you.

“It was nice having them around,” Trevor admits. “I might even miss them a little.”

“Really? That makes one of us,” you say in an attempt at a joke, but the moment the words leave your lips you’re immediately nervous about it sounding too forced.

Trevor doesn’t seem to notice — or doesn’t seem to show that he noticed. He grins and shrugs, then offers you his arm. You let him lead you back into the house. “Did you have any plans for today?” he asks you as he holds the front door open for you.

“No, only sending off my cousins. I purposely kept my schedule free today so I could— _Oh_!”

Your husband is kissing you, arms wrapped around you. You hear him kick the door shut with his heel, then he lifts you up. You can’t help but put your arms around his shoulders and cross your ankles behind his back. Your body is pressed against his and you can feel the heat seep through your clothes. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders with desire and anticipation. He’s going to carry you to the bedroom, no doubt. Trevor’s lips make their way to your neck, kissing, sucking, and nibbling until you’re completely breathless.

“Trevor,” you moan, your eyes fluttering closed. “Trevor, wait... somebody might see us...”

“And?” You can feel him grin against the skin of your neck. He gives your bottom a firm squeeze through the muslin fabric of your dress while he walks up the stairs. “We’ll be in the bedroom shortly.”

Oh, you want this so badly. You haven’t had him... Well, the last time was _before_ your cousins came to visit. It’s humbling to know that he wants you as desperately as you want him. The bedroom door opens and shuts, and he gently lays you down on the bed. It’s mere seconds before he’s on top of you, his lips finding yours again. His name rolls from your lips. Your heart thumps in your chest. A heat begins to pool in your abdomen. You close your eyes, completely ready to surrender yourself to the ministrations of your husband.

Trevor moans your name against your skin while his hands move to undo the buttons of your dress. You turn your head to the side to give his lips better access to the sensitive skin of your neck and collarbone. For a moment your eyes flutter open, and God, you wish they hadn’t.

Because your eyes fall onto the dresser where you hid the lockbox, and now you’re feeling sick.

Your stomach lurches. How can you do this with Trevor and pretend nothing is going on when you’re hiding something so significant from him? His hands and mouth are all over your body, reverently touching and squeezing and stroking, but none of it makes you feel good any more. Every single one of his touches only amplifies your guilt.

It’s unbearable.

“Trevor, stop,” you whisper just as he’s about to slide your dress from your shoulders. He freezes, his expression turning worried when he sees your face.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, hands moving to cup your cheeks. He sounds like he’s almost afraid of your answer, and a lump forms in your throat. Should you have let him continue? No, you think, he’ll eventually figure out that your heart isn’t into it, and that will only make him feel worse. Better to stop now than to regret it afterwards.

“No,” you tell him quickly, turning your head to kiss the palm of his hand. “Not at all. I’m just... I’m not feeling so well.” You give him an apologetic smile. “Maybe another time?”

He nods once, rather stiffly, then kisses your forehead. “Of course.”

*

Something is wrong.

Trevor knows something is wrong, because you have never turned down his advances that way before. If you aren’t in the mood for lovemaking, you will simply tell him outright. You’ve never made up excuses before — never _had_ to make up excuses before. He’d much rather have no partner than an unenthusiastic partner. He thought you knew that.

He’s out for a walk in the gardens, simply for the sake of walking and to be alone with his thoughts. The movement helps him get rid of the nervous energy he seems to be brimming with. At least he won’t be bothered by anyone in the gardens. He knows that if he runs into Bartley, the man will be napping anyway. Bartley scarcely does anything other than nap and eat, and for some reason Trevor is paying him for it. Still, as long as the gardens stay in perfect condition, he has no real reason to get rid of him. Besides, he quite likes the gardener. Bartley is a simple man, and simple to figure out.

Unlike you. Or himself, really, Trevor thinks with a dry snort. What a fitting match.

He’s completely at a loss, trying to figure out what it exactly is that’s wrong. Something is plaguing you, and he wants so desperately to help, but he can’t when you’re keeping it from him. You promised him no secrets, and yet... Trevor knows it had been an excuse when you turned him down because you had been feeling perfectly fine just moments before. Sure, it might be a rather weak and lousy argument from his part, but he just knows in his bones that he’s right. There had been colour in your cheeks, you smiled and talked easily with your cousins as you said your goodbyes, and you had a hearty breakfast before that. There was nothing indicating that you might feel unwell, no possible reason that your constitution could so suddenly change.

Then he stops dead in his tracks and inhales sharply.

He can think of one reason why you’d suddenly feel unwell.

His mind is racing. It hasn’t been very long since you had started trying to conceive a child, but if you were successful, it would certainly have been long enough for you to start feeling the... well, the symptoms. Maybe you suddenly felt nauseous? It wouldn’t be strange, especially because of the hearty breakfast you had. His heart skips a beat. He doesn’t remember the last time you had your courses. It was a few weeks ago, right? He swears under his breath, he really ought to start paying attention to those kinds of things.

Still, it doesn’t put a damper on his joy. The idea of becoming a father terrifies and thrills him all the same. He knows he shouldn’t get his hopes up — he’ll be disappointed if he’s wrong — but he’s been so excited to start a family with you, and if you’re actually pregnant...

Trevor turns on his feet and makes his way back to the home, trying not to grin like an idiot. He needs to know, and he needs to know now.

The door to the bedroom opens, and you scramble to hide the letters as fast as you can.

Trevor stands in the door opening and stares at you, hand still on the doorknob. He’s at a loss for words for a moment. You’re clearly trying to hide something. He suddenly feels his chest tighten. He begins by softly saying your name, and you swallow the lump in your throat. Then he continues, “I’m sorry, am I intruding?”

“No, not at all,” you blurt out. “I was just reading some letters.”

He’s quiet for a moment. He thinks about the question he wanted to ask you, but now he just feels stupid and he mentally wants to hit himself. Of course you’re not pregnant. Why did he think that? Just as he had predicted he got his hopes up and now he’s disappointed. More than disappointed, almost, because there’s clearly more going on. If you were pregnant, you would have obviously figured it out before him, and you would have told him.

...Right?

He clears his throat. “Oh?” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Who are they from?”

You lower your head and demurely look at him through your eyelashes. “It’s private,” you mumble.

Trevor tightens his grip on the doorknob. Private? Well, of course he’ll grant you your privacy, but it’s not just that, is it? There’s more going on, and you’re lying to him again. Hiding something from him. His stomach lurches. Who are you corresponding with? Are you unhappy with him, and have you found someone else who you would rather be with? Is that why you turned down his advances? He only realises that his knuckles have turned white when he sees you look at his hand with a nervous expression on your face. Immediately he moves his hand away, shoving both of them into his pockets instead. “Of course,” he says with an uneasy smile. “Are you feeling better, by the way?”

You blink. Then you realise he meant what you had told him when you had stopped him from making love to you. Quickly you tell him, “Yes, much better. I think something I had during breakfast didn’t agree with me.”

He nods stiffly. “Alright. That’s good to hear.” He just stands there in silence for a while as he takes shallow breaths, the tension in the air so thick that he could cut through it with a knife if he wants to. By God, he _does_ want to. He hates not knowing what’s going on, he hates that you’re keeping secrets again after you’d _promised_ him that there will be no more. However, he knows that forcing you to hand over whatever you’re reading will do more harm than good. He clears his throat. “Well. I’ll leave you to your letters, then.”

You offer him a nod with a small, grateful smile. Then just as he turns to leave, you call out to him. “Oh, um, Trevor?”

“Yes?” he mumbles, looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“I think I shall head out this afternoon,” you say to him. “To the village.”

He wants to point out that you’ve been to the village plenty of times while your cousins were here, but figures that the comment won’t be appreciated. He tenses up again. Are you meeting whoever you’re corresponding with in the village? Is that why you’ve been there so often? Did you only use your cousins as an excuse? He quickly shakes the thoughts from his mind. No, this might be a blessing. So he smiles, nods, tells you to have fun, and takes his leave... and when you’ve left that afternoon to go to the village, he returns to the bedroom to find those infuriating letters you were reading. He’s slept in this room for many, many more years than you have. He knows all the nooks and crannies, all the hiding places. Thoroughly he checks every single spot that you could have made use of. Nothing in this room will stay hidden from him for long. He’ll turn over every last bit of furniture if he has to.

... And then neatly put everything back in place, of course.

Yet somehow you manage to stump him. There he was, thinking that finding the letters would be a breeze. He really ought to give your hiding skills more credit, he thinks. He’s sure he’s checked _everywhere_ in your bedroom. The letters can’t be in another room, you hadn’t gone to another room before leaving for the village, you had stayed here to change into another dress—

His eyes snap towards the dresser.

Of course.

You were almost successful at keeping those letters hidden. Almost. It takes just moments before he finds the lockbox tucked away behind your shoes. (He’ll never understand why you have so many shoes. Why do you need so many shoes? You only have two feet. Then again, not that he was doing much to help keep the collection small — more than half of them had been gifted by him.) He holds up the small, wooden lockbox to inspect it in the afternoon sunlight. It’s a lockbox, he thinks to himself, which means there must be a key. Trevor groans. Now he has to find the fucking key. He’s already in a bad mood, but now it’s shifting from bad to foul. He stares at the lockbox and for a moment considers smashing it open instead. It’ll likely be less of a hassle.

He takes a deep breath. No, he’ll have to go about this more subtly. If the letters are innocent and you simply wanted some privacy... well, he’ll look like an ass, going around smashing open lockboxes.

The answer is simple. He’ll just have to pick the lock.

His lock picking tools were hidden away in his study, which is also where, he decides, he will examine the contents of the lockbox once it’s open. Did Marcus ever tell you from who he learned how to pick a lock? Do you even know that your older cousin knows how to pick a lock? Likely not, if you thought a simple lock would stop your husband, Trevor thinks to himself with a cocky grin. With the lockbox on his desk he gets to work, carefully feeling around as he tries to keep his hands steady. It’s difficult doing something that requires so much precise coordination when he’s all nerves. Maybe smashing open the lockbox isn’t so much of a bad idea after all. Breaking something might also make him feel better, if only a little.

Then he hears a clicking sound, and he knows he succeeded.

After taking a deep breath to steel himself, Trevor opens the lockbox and looks inside.

*

You’re grateful that Trevor didn’t ask you why you were heading to the village. You would have probably had to think up a lousy excuse that even he would have a hard time believing. Was there a day you _hadn’t_ been to the village while your cousins were here? You’re not sure. Regardless, it means that you _should_ have no business there.

Emphasis on “should”.

You still feel guilty for doing all of this behind Trevor’s back. Almost getting caught only served to worsen those feelings. You had so hastily tried to hide the letters, it obviously looked suspicious. What if he thinks that you’re secretly corresponding with someone else? Your chest tightens. You don’t want him to think you’re unfaithful to him, you wouldn’t ever even _consider_ it.

However, after reading the rest of those letters, you’re even more sure that you have to figure this out on your own first.

Trevor would be devastated if he reads the letters. Some of the things written there, it... well, it made you feel sick. It still does, thinking back on it. Most of the letters talked politics: inviting other vampires to join in on the massacre, calling for more forces for an _army_ , and trying to convince more and more people (no, _vampires_ ) that Lord Tepes has to die. However, the ones that truly made you feel sick were the ones describing the massacre from the perspective of those who had taken part in it. The details were bloody, and just by reading the words you could almost hear the screams yourself. You want to spare Trevor the pain of having to read the letters until you’re sure of what needs to happen next. You’re on the cusp of something big and terrible happening, and you know that you have to do _something_ to stop it.

The most frustrating part is that you’re sure you’re sitting on top of a pile of information that would answer so, so many of your questions. However, you can’t go down into the Hold on your own. Trevor has shown you how to open the door, but so far you have never gone down there on your own. You’ve already been behaving so suspiciously, and you’re not sure you can think of a reasonable excuse that wouldn’t lead to Trevor asking more questions than you can handle answering. So you’re stuck with a mystery on your hands, unable to solve it, but you can’t enlist the help of your husband until you’ve gathered the first clues.

However, there is someone who appears to be able to provide those first clues.

The mysterious Mr Tepes, whose father seems to be at the heart of the calamity that’s creeping closer by the day. You pull on the reigns of your horse to stop in front of the roadside inn. It’s the only inn nearby, and the one where you had spent your wedding night.

How very ironic.

You’re relieved that Adrian’s instructions specified meeting him here rather than at the tavern in the village. You surely would have been recognised there. Here the chances were slightly lower, though the innkeeper might give you a weird look. You just hope you’ll make it back home before supper, or at least before nightfall. You don’t want to worry Trevor more than you undoubtedly already are.

After handing your horse to the care of the stableboy, you head inside and make a beeline for the innkeeper behind the bar. Your bonnet obscures most of your face when you keep your head low, but you lift your chin just enough for the innkeeper to meet your eyes. He looks surprised to see you. “I’m looking for a Mr Tepes?” you ask with a hushed tone.

He’s about to respond when you both hear the creaking of the wooden stairs. Adrian walks down and smiles at you.

“Lady Belmont, what a surprise to see you here.”


	6. Depths of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Belmont meets with Mr Tepes. When she returns home for supper, an unpleasant surprise awaits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the plot is revealed...! Writing Alucard being sassy was a joy. He’ll be back before you know it. I hope you enjoy today’s chapter!

The sun is setting, finally.

Carmilla watches the dying light from her bedroom window with a smile. The transition from day to night is one of the most beautiful things to behold. How she loves the night. Everything is a little more mysterious, a little more magical, in the darkness of the night.

Oh, she’s not becoming sentimental now, is she?

She stretches out, all the way to her fingertips and her painted nails. Then she lets out a content exhale.

“Good evening, Carmilla,” Lenore says as she walks into the bedroom, her voice melodic as ever. Perfectly poised, she strolls over to the bed and sits beside her sister. “Did you sleep well?”

Carmilla smiles. “Like the dead.”

Lenore giggles, hiding her smile behind her gloved hand. Then she leans closer with a playful twinkle in her eyes. “I’ve got news that’ll undoubtedly please you. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do,” Carmilla says, sitting up straight. She brushes her pale hair over her shoulder. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense any longer. What is it?”

Her voice laced with a conspiratorial tone, Lenore whispers, “Trevor Belmont has married.”

Carmilla blinks as she registers the information, then a wicked smile blooms on her face. Lenore was right, this news pleases her a _lot_. She casually inspects her nails. “Has he now? How delightful. I do hope the happy couple will have children soon... don’t you agree?”

Lenore hums an affirmation and nods.

Carmilla gets up from her bed, shrugging on her silk robe over her chemise. “Now,” she says and turns to look at Lenore with her arms crossed. “Tell me everything you know about the new Lady Belmont.”

*

“One could say it should not be a surprise to see me here,” you tell Adrian, carefully picking out the words as you turn to look at him. “After all, you were the one who invited me.”

You remember this inn fondly, but it right now it’s nowhere near as cosy and romantic as it is in your memories. The dining area feels too small, almost claustrophobic, and you can’t help but notice how little escape routes there are. There’s only one door, and the windows are firmly shut. At least you’re not alone, you think to yourself. The innkeeper is here, and there are other patrons present having some food or drink. Their low chatter forms the backdrop to your conversation with Adrian. Though you’re not sure if you should be happy about other people being present. Whatever or whoever he is, you’re afraid that if he turns to violence, that he’ll...

Well, best not to think about it too much.

Adrian lets out a low chuckle, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Of course. I will concede on that matter.” He gestures at the door. “How about we go for a stroll while we talk? It’ll lend us a bit more privacy.”

“I think I should prefer to stay here,” you say slowly, “Where there are more people.”

He hums. “Eyewitnesses, you mean.” A sly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. You elect to ignore his statement, and simply walk over to a vacant table. If you keep your voices low enough, there won’t be anyone within earshot. Adrian pulls out your chair for you, which surprises you just a little. Of course, you’d half expected him to adhere to proper etiquette, but... you’d also half expected him to have bled you dry by now.

If he _is_ indeed a vampire.

Though, he couldn’t be, right? He can walk outside in sunlight...

“In case you’re wondering,” he murmurs as he sits down opposite you, “I’m not a vampire.”

Your mouth makes a perfect little O, and you utter the vowel as well. Seeing Adrian smile, clearly amused, is enough motivation for you to quickly regain your composure. With a low voice, you ask him, “How did you know?”

He gives you an earnest look, which startles you a little. “I can read minds.”

Your face turns red.

Immediately a grin appears on his face, and you notice that for the first time he’s smiling with his teeth showing. You spot very, very sharp looking canines. If he’s not a vampire, then what could he be? “That,” he tells you, “was a joke.”

You huff. A nuisance is what he is, you think. His joke was clearly an attempt to make you relax, but it doesn’t work. You won’t let it work. You’re still on edge. Underneath the table, your hand feels for the gun strapped to your thigh beneath your dress. It’s still there and loaded, of course, but feeling it puts you at ease. “This does not seem like a good time to be making jokes, Mr Tepes,” you say, your tone clipped with annoyance. “If you’re not going to tell me anything useful, I should really be returning home.”

Adrian opens his mouth to respond, but closes it when one of the serving maids walks over to ask if you’d like anything to eat or to drink. You both settle for having tea — just tea — for now. It’s only after she bobs a curtsy and takes her leave that Adrian continues talking.

“Of course, my sincerest apologies,” he murmurs, but you’re not sure if they’re really that sincere at all. “Allow me to start anew, and from the beginning, perhaps.” You give him a nod to let him know that you’re listening. “I am Adrian Tepes. As you have likely gathered from the letters I have given you, my father is Lord Dracula Vlad Tepes. He is a vampire.” You feel the hairs in your neck stand up. Adrian pauses to study your face for a reaction, but you keep your expression as stoic as you can. He continues, “My mother is Lisa Tepes. She is a human. That makes me a dhampir.”

“I see,” you say softly, making a mental note to look up everything there is known about dhampirs in the Belmont Hold later. There’s one question you need to know the answer to _now_ , though. “Do you drink blood?”

“No,” he says and shakes his head. “I do not need it to sustain me, and I hate the taste.” He momentarily makes a face of mild disgust similar to the faces your younger cousins make when faced with sprouts. That’s how you know it’s genuine. The look is gone as quickly as it came and Adrian continues speaking. “If you have read the letters, then you must know that the lives of my parents are in danger,” he says softly, looking completely serious. There’s a bit of vulnerability in his tone as well, which feels strange. You hadn’t expected to see that in a... well, a _half_ -vampire. “Not just my parents, but all of Britain at this rate. Carmilla plans to overthrow my father, and once he’s out of her way, she plans to turn the British Isles into a farm. She is gathering an army as we speak. We may not have long before she decides to pay my parents’ home a visit. My father may be a powerful vampire, but even he cannot stop an entire army on his own.”

You swallow thickly. The conversation is interrupted again when your order arrives. It gives you the time you need to think and process the information that Adrian is providing. However, in all honesty, you’re still unsure of what to do with it. You have a feeling where this is going, and you’re not sure if you’re going to like it. After your cups of tea have been fixed, the serving maid bobs another curtsy and takes her leave. Adrian looks at you intently, waiting for you to say something. You tap your fingers on the table in thought, your brows creasing into a frown.

“Carmilla and her supporters are all vampires,” he says when you don’t respond. “You and your husband are vampire hunters.”

You stare at Adrian. “Is your father not a lord of vampires of some sorts?”

“ _The_ lord of vampires, actually,” he says quietly. “It’s complicated. Your husband might be able to explain it better to you.”

He’s mad, you think. A complete lunatic. You feel a dull headache settle between your temples. You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose, a habit you seem to have picked up from Trevor. “And you want my husband and I to work together with him to preserve his life?”

“I know how this sounds—” You look up at Adrian and raise your brows. “—But I implore you, no I _beg_ you to consider it. Surely you understand that it is the lesser of two evils. I know that the history between my father and the Belmonts is anything but amiable—“ Is that what Trevor mentioned? “—But I promise you, my father does not slake his thirst with innocent human blood anymore. Not since he met my mother, which was two decades ago. He’s not the man that he used to be.”

You sigh, giving Adrian a difficult look. _Innocent_ human blood? So he’s still drinking human blood, but of what? Criminals? It’s a marginal improvement, you suppose. Adrian sounds so sincere and desperate, and your gut feeling tells you that he can be trusted... but still, you feel rather hesitant about all of this. You lift your teacup to your lips to take a tentative sip. It’s then that you realise that you want Trevor’s counsel first. He’ll know more about this Lord Tepes. After you tell him about the letters and show them to him, and give him time to process them... surely he’ll figure out what to do. “I’ll speak to my husband. Once we’ve made a decision, I shall either send a messenger to the inn or find you myself.”

Adrian smiles gratefully. “That is all I ask.”

Thinking about what else to say or ask, you chew on your bottom lip. Adrian watches you patiently. “Can you tell me more about this Carmilla?”

His smile fades from his face. “You want to know more about the massacre.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. You nod in affirmation. Adrian looks down at his own cup of tea. “The Belmonts have hunted vampires for generations. Carmilla knew that her ambitious plans to overthrow my father and turn Britain into her personal farm would never succeed with so many monster hunters still walking around. She’s a woman who does everything with a purpose.” He pauses as he tries to find the right words. “Many vampires hold a grudge against the Belmonts. As you could see from the letters, she invited them to take part in the massacre to gain their favour.”

“For her little coup d’état,” you say quietly. “It really was just politics to her.”

“Everything is politics to Carmilla,” Adrian says softly. “She’s a genius and a force to be reckoned with in that regard. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t bother looking for help. However, this is Carmilla, and I won’t make the mistake of underestimating her.”

You nod in acknowledgement. While you think of your next question, Adrian takes a sip from his tea. What else do you want to know? There were so many unanswered questions burning in your mind while you were on your way here, but now you’re finding yourself at a loss. You just look at him while you think. Now you have more time to carefully study his appearance, you find yourself noticing the more vampiric aspects. You’ve never seen a vampire in real life before, but the books in the Hold are plenty illustrative. “Tell me about your father,” you say, feeling a little more confident and a little more at ease. “If we’re going to fight to preserve his life, I need to know for sure that he truly won’t hurt anyone.”

“We’ll also be fighting to prevent the British Isles from turning into a vampire buffet,” Adrian points out. Seeing that you do not appreciate his comment, he lightly clears his throat and returns to the subject at hand. “I will freely admit that my father used to be a cruel man,” he says quietly. “I have read and heard about the atrocities he has committed. However, that is in the past. He has changed since my mother came into his life.” He smiles. A genuine, warm smile. “She has shown him that humans deserve to live and deserve to be treated with respect. That they are more than just food. He still has many sins to repent for, but I truly believe that he will get there eventually.”

Your chest tightens. “He did all that for your mother?”

Adrian nods, wearing a wistful smile. “He did it all for love.”

*

You’re late for supper, but you’re home before nightfall. It’s not ideal, but it’s good enough. You’re just hoping that Trevor wasn’t too worried while you were gone. After you’ve eaten, you’ll talk to him privately in your bedroom. You’ll explain everything. He’ll understand. You nod to yourself, a little lost in thought. Mere seconds after entering through the front door and closing it behind you, Mr Clark materialises in front of you. He bows and holds out his hand. “Welcome home, Lady Belmont.”

“I’m sorry, I must have missed supper,” you say with an apologetic smile, unfastening your cloak and handing it to your butler. He avoids looking at you directly. You blink, then carefully ask, “Is... something the matter, Mr Clark?”

“Lord Belmont instructed me to send you to his study the moment you came home,” he says with a low voice. “He seems to be in a rather foul mood.”

You feel nauseous.

He knows.

“Okay,” you say with a small voice. “I’ll go there immediately, then. Please... Please tell Hudson I won’t be having anything to eat tonight. I don’t have much of an appetite left.”

Mr Clark nods, then quickly leaves.

You look at the staircase. Then you walk over to the bottom steps and slowly begin to head up. Maybe it would be nice if you tripped and sprained your ankle now, so you wouldn’t have to go up anymore. Or maybe breaking your neck would be an even better option. You shake your head, what are you thinking? You need to face this. Surely Trevor will understand. Surely he’ll see your perspective. Surely he won’t get mad.

Your blood turns to ice when you read the top of the stairs. Trevor has never lost his temper at you before. You hope it’ll stay that way, but you’re not so sure anymore.

With every step you take closer to his study, you recount all the things you could have done differently. That you _should_ have done differently. One part of you is telling you that you should have hidden the lockbox better. In one of the unused rooms, maybe. Definitely not so close to where he caught you. Another part of you is telling you that you should have told him about the letters the moment you had gotten them. You shouldn’t have kept this from him. What will he think? Tears prick in your eyes. You know from the bottom of your heart that you hadn’t kept this from him with ill intentions.

You’re in front of the door to his study. With a trembling hand, you knock.

“Come in.”

The door creaks on its hinges as you push it open and peek inside. Trevor is seated in the chair behind his desk. The warm evening light filtering in through the windows shines on the open lockbox on top of his desk, its contents sprawled out. There’s just enough space left on the desk for a half-finished bottle of whisky. Seeing it makes your heart ache. A quick count confirms that every single one of the letters is unfolded. He has read everything. The feeling of nausea slowly worsens.

Trevor looks up at you, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand. His brows are furrowed and his pale blue eyes are ablaze with fury. You’ve never seen him so angry before, and it frightens you a little. “Sit down,” he says, somehow managing to keep his voice controlled and even. “We need to talk.”

Wordlessly you close the door behind you and pull up a chair to sit down opposite Trevor. Your body is completely stiff, your hands gripping the fabric of your dress in your lap. There’s a heavy, oppressive silence in the air while you wait for Trevor to say something, _anything_ , because you don’t trust yourself to say the right things right now.

“Why did you keep this from me?” he asks with a low voice, carefully watching your face for your reaction. You wince.

You open your mouth to respond, but the lump in your throat stops you from speaking immediately. After swallowing hard, you quietly say, “I was afraid you would be devastated if you read those letters. I didn’t want you to read them until I knew what to do with them.”

Trevor laughs bitterly, which makes you want to crawl into a hole and die. “Trust me when I say that I’m more devastated by my wife hiding things from me than by the content of these letters.” He gestures at the letters in question with his free hand. “ _Well_ ,” he snaps, “do you know what to do with them now?” You try to fight back your tears as you shake your head, unable to form any more words. He knows exactly what to say to hurt you. Maybe it’s only fair. Trevor sighs when he sees you on the brink of tears. He sinks further into his chair, then asks, “How did you come by these?”

After sniffling and blinking away your tears, you look up and try to face the music as bravely as you can. “Given to me by Adrian Tepes, son of Lord Tepes.”

That got his attention. However, you’re not sure if that’s something you want right now. He sits up straight. “Those letters,” he says, sounding awfully quiet, “were given to you by Dracula’s son?”

You murmur, “That’s what I said.”

Trevor slams his hand on the desk, making you jump in your chair. You turn away as you hear him curse under his breath. You hate it when he’s loud like this. The legs of Trevor’s chair scrape over the wooden floor as he gets to his feet, leaning with the palms of his hands on the desk. “Why in God’s name would you speak to _Dracula’s son_ , woman?!” he cries out. You cross your arms, refusing to look at him when he’s shouting. “Did you not _listen_ during the times I told you about Dracula? He could have hurt you, could have _killed_ you!”

“But he didn’t! In fact, he came to me asking for our _help_ ,” you snap, rapidly losing your patience. “Speak to me like I’m an adult, Trevor, or do not speak to me at all. If you’re going to shout at me for one more second, I’m leaving.”

“You lost your right to be spoken to like an adult the moment you decided to hide those letters from me,” Trevor hisses.

“Well, I’m sorry for being concerned about your emotional well-being,” you say, wanting nothing more in that moment but to hurt him with your words just like he had hurt you. You get up from your chair. “But if you’d rather have a loveless marriage where we lead entirely separate lives, then trust me when I say that can easily be arranged.”

That seems to strike a chord with him. Trevor goes completely quiet, the anger dissolving from his face. “I never said that,” he says quietly.

The vulnerability in his eyes brings you to tears. You hate this. You hate fighting with Trevor. You hate everything. Frustrated, you wipe the tears away with the back of your gloved hand. “I’m tired of fighting, Trevor,” you say, your voice bitter despite sounding like you could burst into sobs at any moment. “All we do is shout at each other. Can we _please_ talk about this another time?”

He nods stiffly. “Of course.”

You walk to the door, but pause before leaving. You look at your husband. “I’m sorry for hiding those letters from you,” you say earnestly with a quiet voice. “And I’m sorry for breaking my promise. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

Trevor swallows the lump in his throat. He’s close to tears himself. “I’m sorry for losing my temper,” he manages to croak out. “And for raising my voice at you.”

You give him a short nod of acknowledgement, then leave his study.

*

Despite the fight, you did not sleep in separate bedchambers. You’ve never been pushed so far as to want to sleep in separate bedchambers. Maybe some part of you feels like once you make that step, you’ll never be able to go back to how things were before. If your nights are spent separately, how can you expect your days to not follow in the same steps? No matter what you said while you were blinded by anger, you don’t want to have a loveless marriage. You don’t want to lead separate lives, and neither does Trevor. At the end of the day, you love him so fiercely that you’re afraid of ever losing him. You want to reconcile, you want to apologise for keeping this from him, you want to explain, explain _properly_ without tears and without shouting, why you did what you did. You don’t want to lose him.

However, the wounds from the fight and everything that has led up to it are still fresh. You wake up as you had fallen asleep, with your back turned to Trevor.

Does he have a busy schedule today? You don’t know, and you don’t have the courage to turn around and ask. Besides, he might still be asleep. You can feel the heat of his body behind you and hear his quiet breathing. You want nothing more right now than to turn around and put your arms around him, pressing your cheek to his muscular back.

You wince when you feel a dull pain in your abdomen.

Your hand moves to touch your stomach, and after shifting in your spot you inhale sharply and quickly sit up. Pushing the covers aside, you look down at your lap and see your chemise and the sheets stained with blood. You blink slowly as you register what has happened. It’s completely normal, of course. This has happened before. It’s very simple. Your courses started overnight.

You’re not pregnant.

You can’t explain why, but a deep, deep sorrow rises from the depths of your heart and holds it in its grip. Your bottom lip quivers and your chest rises and falls with erratic breaths, which slowly turn into sobs. You put your face in your hands as you cry, your body shaking.

Trevor is woken from his sleep when he feels the covers being pushed away, but he’s wide awake when he hears you cry. Sitting up, he quietly calls out your name, but you give no response nor any indication that you heard him through your sobs. Taking one look at the blood, he knows enough. Despite having fought yesterday evening, and despite the distance still between the two of you, he can’t leave you alone like this. It wouldn’t be right. So he does the one thing that does feel right, which is to pull you into his arms and let you cry on his shoulder while he holds you. His hand strokes your hair and he kisses your forehead.

“It’s alright,” he whispers. As if he knows what you’re thinking, he mumbles, “You did nothing wrong.”

You believe him.


	7. Soap and Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor and his wife have a heart-to-heart conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! A reconciliation chapter, because I can’t stand it when couples are mad at each other for too long... (Makes me sad as hell.) Anyhow, the second scene involves period sex, so if that’s not your cup of tea then feel free to skip over it! It’s not very important for plot, but you’ll miss a great pun, though. I hope you enjoy today’s chapter! See you soon B)

Steam slowly rises from the water surface.

With your eyes glazed over you stare out in front of you. Your knees break through the milky water, but apart from your head and your shoulders, your entire body is submerged in the hot water of the bath. You’re surrounded by the smell of soaps and oils which seems to permeate your every sense. The pain from your cramps has been reduced to a dull throb.

You’ve never been more grateful for Millie and Miss Lynch. They changed the bloodied sheets within minutes and had a bath drawn for you. All of it had happened so fast while you just stood there and let it happen, as if in a trance. You had used up all your energy for your sobs and couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You didn’t even respond when Trevor told you he would be back soon, and then left.

It’s just you and Millie in the room as she quietly washes your back.

However, the bath does not seem to help the hollow feeling in your chest. For some reason, without even realising it, you had been desperately holding onto the hope that you would be pregnant. Of course, you want to start a family. However, you know, rationally, that it can take a number of tries before you’re successful. Seeing the blood shouldn’t have been upsetting. You could always keep trying. This wasn’t the end of the world. You and Trevor are both still young, and there’s no rush. Yet here you are, still on the brink of tears. Why? Did you think that a baby would magically fix the problems you have? A darker thought crosses your mind. Or are you afraid that this reflects your perceived failings as a wife to Trevor? A bitter smile appears on your face, and it’s a good thing that Millie can’t see it. She would be even more worried than she already is.

You quietly sigh.

No, he told you that you didn’t do anything wrong, and he was right. You didn’t. You simply weren’t lucky this time around. Maybe next time.

The door opens and you hear the distinct footsteps belonging to your husband. It’s something in the sound of his heel on the wooden floor that makes it so recognisable. You don’t stir, but Millie does. She gets to her feet and quickly bobs a curtsy. “Lord Belmont,” she says, keeping her head low.

“I need a moment alone with my wife.”

Millie mumbles an “of course”. After putting away the bar of soap she was lathering your back with, she takes her leave and shuts the door behind her.

You can see Trevor from the corner of your eye, but you don’t turn to look at him. Even if you wanted to, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. You’re exhausted. You’re tired of the fighting, you’re tired of being pulled into this mystery you never asked for, and you’re tired of feeling like everything around you is happening so fast and is all out of your control. You’ve spent so much time trying to be strong. It’s as if all at once the exhaustion has caught up to you and has reached into your very bones. There’s nothing in the world that you want more right now than to curl up in bed and sleep for a fortnight or so. Maybe you’ll feel better afterwards.

It’s not an option, sadly. There’s a looming vampire threat and since you’ve read the letters it has taken up residence in the dark corners of your mind, keeping you on edge.

Trevor takes Millie’s place behind you, sitting down on the stool and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out to touch the back of your neck, fingertips trailing down your spine until he reaches the edge of the water. You let out a sigh as your shoulders relax. It’s been so long since he has touched you like this. Your worries seem to melt away under the warmth of his skin. “Has she washed your hair yet?” he murmurs. You shake your head. Carefully he runs his fingers through your hair, working out the tangles and the knots as he lathers on the soap. You sit there in content silence, enjoying your husband’s tender touch. You’ve missed it so, so much.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, almost afraid to break the silence. You blink the tears from your eyes. “I shouldn’t have kept those letters from you. I wanted to protect you from getting hurt, but only did more damage in the process.”

Trevor is quiet for a moment. You know he’s taking a moment to think, and to find the right words to respond with. So you patiently wait for him to begin speaking, giving him the time that he needs. “When I saw you hide those letters, I thought you had been corresponding with...” he trails off, almost as if he’s unable to say what he’s feeling, and swallows the lump in his throat. “I thought you’d... I was afraid that you had found... somebody else. That you had fallen in love with someone else.”

You turn to look over your shoulder at Trevor and see the pained expression on his face. It’s almost enough to bring you to tears again. “I would never be unfaithful to you,” you whisper, eyes wide and earnest.

“I know,” he says with a small smile. You now wordlessly, then turn to look straight ahead again while he continues washing your hair. His voice is soft as he talks. “When I read the letters, I was initially relieved that it wasn’t what I had feared. But then when I got through them, I was... Well, you were right. I was devastated by what was in there.” He swallows thickly. “And I was confused and angry because I was so, so afraid that you had put yourself in danger to acquire those letters.” He puts away the bar of soap. You’re both quiet for a while as he traces his fingers over your shoulder. “I’ve given you far too much power over my heart.”

You smile, even though Trevor can’t see it. “Is that such a bad thing?”

He chuckles, and the sound is music to your ears. “Sometimes. Come, let’s get the soap out of your hair.”

You hold your breath, then sink further down into the bath to dip your head underwater. For a moment, that’s all your world is: the sound of your blood rushing in your ears and the darkness behind your closed eyes. It’s calming, somehow. Just for a few seconds, you’ve escaped to another, lonelier world. When you’re certain all the soap is out, you sit up again and gasp for air, water dripping down. You push your hair back, out of your face, then wipe the water out of your eyes. You’re back.

Then you turn around, properly turn around, to look at Trevor. Your hands hold your body in place by gripping the edge of the tub. He’s at a loss for words for a moment. He always thought it would be impossible for you to be any more beautiful than you already are, yet there you are, right in front of him. Usually he hates it when he’s proven to be wrong, but this time it’s not so bad, he thinks. He can count the individual droplets of water that cling to the lashes framing your eyes, and suddenly he wants nothing more in the world than to kiss you. So he does exactly that, leaning forward to gently press his lips to yours. His eyes flutter shut when he feels you kiss him back. Without having to think he cups your face in his hands. This feels right. This feels like everything he should have been doing instead of fighting with you. “I love you,” he whispers against your lips. “I love you so much. You have no idea.”

You can’t help but smile through the kiss. “I think I do.” It’s difficult not to surrender to Trevor, but there’s something you need to say first. Reluctantly, you break the kiss and look at him intently. “I love you too. More than anything in the world. And I know we don’t always get along—” he grins “—but no matter how much we fight, I don’t ever want anyone else. I want you, and only you. I want all of you, all your good and bad parts, because you’re also my best friend and I know that no matter what the world throws at us, we’ll be able to face it together.”

Trevor’s bright blue eyes are brimming with tears, and he quickly wipes them away with the back of his hand. “Now you’ve gone and made me cry,” he says with a laugh. “Come on, get out of the bath.”

You carefully stand up. You’ve been naked in front of him many times, but you’ve never felt so bare before. Trevor picks up a towel and wraps it around you, then scoops you up in his arms. He kisses you tenderly while he carries you to your bed and lays you down. “Shouldn’t I get dressed?” you whisper, looking up at him.

He trails his fingers down your bare leg and you feel goosebumps form in their wake. “I’m not sure.”

Your heart skips a beat. “But, Trevor, my courses... and the sheets have just been changed...”

He leans down to kiss you. “I’m not afraid of a bit of blood. Besides, we can just put down a towel, can’t we? We’ll need one for your wet hair, anyway.” Then he pauses and with an uncharacteristically shy look on his face he asks, “Only if you want, of course.”

You nod eagerly.

*

Trevor returns to the room holding a stack of towels. Far more than necessary. You giggle when you see him and sit up, your hair still wet and dripping onto your shoulders and down your back. “How much do you think I bleed, Trevor?” you ask him with a teasing tone. “Or are you planning to mop up a murder scene?”

His face colours red with embarrassment. Only _slightly_ annoyed, Trevor mutters, “I’d rather put down too many towels than too little. Make room.”

He walks over with long strides as you scoot over. One by one he lays down the towels, then nods to himself when he’s satisfied with his handiwork. He looks cute when he’s proud of himself, you think. You find it hard to resist kissing him senseless right then and there. Then again, what’s the point of resisting? You kneel down on the newly designated spot on the bed, then reach out to grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him in for that kiss you wanted. Trevor immediately surrenders, standing with his legs pressed to the edge of the bed as he tries to get as close to you as he can. His hands brush your wet hair from your shoulders and onto your back, then travel down. He traces his fingers over your skin before grabbing your rear and giving it a firm squeeze. You moan, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips, deepening the kiss. You were the one who wanted to kiss him senseless, but you’re starting to think it might be the other way around.

Your hands begin working on the buttons of his shirt as you grow impatient and needy. Quickly you tug at them one by one until you can slide his shirt off his shoulders and reveal the skin of his torso to you. He breaks the kiss to throw aside the shirt and kick off his shoes (before you start complaining about them). Trevor is about to grab you again for another kiss, but you quickly let yourself fall back and sit back down on the bed. He raises his brows.

With a coy smile you tell him, “Doesn’t seem very fair that I’m the only one who’s naked.”

Trevor rolls his eyes, but you can see a faint grin tug at the corners of his mouth. His hands move to his breeches and he starts unlacing them. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, a cocky smile on his face as he works with painstaking slowness. You bite on your bottom lip in anticipation as you get more and more impatient. However, you keep your mouth firmly shut. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing you complain or even plead. Finally he slips off his breeches and tosses them aside, and you inhale sharply when you see just how much he wants you.

You lie back into the towel-covered pillows when Trevor crawls on top of you, pinning you down between his strong arms. Without having to think your hands begin roaming his body, and your lips capture his for another passionate kiss. You trail your fingers through the dark hair on his chest, then move them up over his collarbone and onto his broad shoulder. You could drown in the heat of his body, you think. He’s perfect, he’s all you could ever want, and you know in your heart of hearts that there’s nothing that could change that for you. You love him, and you love how he’s pressed against you, greedily taking all of you for his own.

He trails kisses from your mouth to your jaw and down your neck, sucking, nibbling, and licking. He drinks in the smell of soap and lavender, mixed in with your own scent. He could get drunk on that smell, he thinks. God, how much he’s missed doing this. How much he’s missed the heat of your body, the salty taste of your skin, the moans of passion that escape from your kiss-swollen lips. He’ll never be able to put it in words completely. So he’ll just have to show you how he feels as he worships your body with his hands and mouth. “I’ve missed your touch,” he whispers against your skin, and you let out a shaky exhale.

“Trevor?”

Immediately he props himself up on his forearms to look at you, a worried expression on his face. “Is something the matter?”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you dip your index and middle finger into your mouth. Trevor sucks in a breath as he watches you. There’s a devilish look in your eyes, telling him that there are delightful things to come that will surely have him on his knees for you. A shiver goes down his spine in anticipation. When your digits are sufficiently wet, you slip your hand between your bodies and wrap it around his length. He’s so stiff, and the feeling of it excites you too. Trevor bites on his bottom lip, his own fingers digging into the towels and the sheets. All he can do is helplessly watch your grin and that wicked look in your eyes. Slowly you stroke him, drawing all sorts of delightful sounds from his throat as he tries to keep himself from buckling. You feel him twitch in your hand when your thumb brushes across the slit, spreading his slickness with your every movement.

Your name rolls from his tongue. He swallows thickly. “I’m not going to last long if you keep going.” His eyes are clouded with desire and he sounds almost desperate as he talks. You like it when he’s like this, so needy. For you, and only for you. “I want you,” he pleads.

With a smile and a nod your hands move to his chest again. A gentle push is all that’s needed for Trevor to move away from you, and in a quick motion, you flip him onto his back and straddle his hips. He looks up at you, breathless. You want to be in control this time. Need to, almost. Your fingers wrap around his length, and you look at your husband. He gives you a nod. Then you guide him into you and let out a pleased sigh when you’ve lowered yourself, your hands on his chest for balance. He fills you up just right, and you can tell from the way Trevor has thrown back his head that it feels good for him too. He grabs your thighs, squeezing them. Then slowly you begin to ride him, moving your hips in a rhythm that feels good, that feels _right_. You move one hand to touch yourself, panting lightly as the feeling of pleasure builds in your abdomen.

“You’re so beautiful,” Trevor whispers as he watches you. He drinks in your form greedily, admiring the way your wet hair leaves behind droplets of water on your skin. He loves the swell of your breasts and the way your nipples are perky with excitement. He loves your soft belly, the curve of your hips, and especially loves your thighs straddling him. He loves it all, and he wants it all. He groans and bites on his bottom lip when you come back down on him particularly roughly. “And you feel so good.” He laughs, sounding breathless. “You’ve got to be the most beautiful woman in the world. I’m sure of it.”

If you weren’t already blushing from arousal, you’re certainly blushing now. “Oh, Trevor,” you say, leaning forward so you’re lying on top of him with your chest pressed against his. He props up his legs so he doesn’t slip out of you, and moves his hands to firmly hold your hips. You kiss him deeply, with all the feeling in your heart. “I love you. I want you. I want you so much. Please, Trevor, make love to me.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. When he starts bucking his hips and thrusting into you, you arch your back and whimper with pleasure. The pain of your courses is nothing but a faint memory now, the only feeling in your abdomen is the heat pooling there and slowly but surely threatening to overflow and spill. You push your torso off him just a little, then use your free hand to continue touching yourself. Trevor grunts, tilting his head back as he pants, digging his fingers into your hips as he picks up the pace and gets just a little rougher. Your slick heat around him is almost enough to drive him mad. He wants more, he wants everything, he wants you to say his name, he wants you to come undone and to realise that there’s nobody in the world who will make love to you the way he does.

“ _Yes_ ,” you mewl. “Yes, Trevor, like that.” He twitches inside you in response to your praise and continues just the way you want him to, but he’s clearly starting to get desperate. His thrusts are getting more erratic and even a little clumsy, and you can tell that he won’t last much longer. Your fingers stroke faster as you seek your own climax, and you slowly feel it draw close. Trevor’s name falls from your lips repeatedly like a benediction, and your husband is sure he’s gotten a glimpse of the Gates of Heaven when he hears it.

Then you gasp. You feel that delicious surge of pleasure as you fall apart, your body tensing up completely. Trevor stifles a gasp of his own and comes undone inside you after one last thrust.

You’re both a little dazed in the afterglow.

You put both hands on his chest so you don’t lose your balance as you catch your breath. Under your fingertips you feel his rapid heartbeat. Trevor looks up at you with a tired grin. Returning the smile, you lean down and kiss him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Running a hand through your hair, you find that it’s a little drier than before. It’s one less problem to deal with. You look down at your bodies, Trevor’s chest still slowly rising and falling as he tries to steady his breathing after the exertion. “We should clean up. I hope we didn’t make too much of a mess...” You trail off.

Trevor gives your thighs a squeeze and gives you a wide grin. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Especially with how many towels I put down. Besides, what is the point of having a sword if you can’t get any blood on it?”

You smack him on the chest. “You’re terrible.”

*

After cleaning up and getting dressed, the two of you find yourselves in bed again. The fresh sheets are soft and silky against your skin. You’re lying on your side, head resting on Trevor’s shoulder while he has his arm around you. Gently he rubs little circles on your lower back. You let out a content sigh. You’ve missed this so much. Why’d you ever fight with him when you can just be like this with him forever?

Oh right. Because he’s a stubborn ass sometimes.

“How’s your stomach?” Trevor asks after pressing a kiss to your forehead, pulling you out of your thoughts. You remember now that he’s _also_ a complete sweetheart sometimes. “Any pain?”

“Luckily, nothing,” you say with a relieved smile, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. “I’m just hoping I won’t bleed much, otherwise Millie will have so many rags to wash. It’s not exactly an enjoyable chore.” You sigh and hug him a little tighter, pressing your cheek firmly against his shoulder. You’re glad that you can openly discuss these things with Trevor. You know enough ladies whose husbands refuse to speak about their courses, or will even sleep in different bedchambers when they bleed. It’s a norm that’s heartbreaking and infuriating all the same, but you’re grateful that it doesn’t apply to your marriage.

He hums and nods. “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

You peek at him, making eye contact. He raises his brows. Quietly you ask him, “There is something, actually, but it doesn’t have anything to do with my courses. Will you hear me out?”

“Of course. What is it?”

You chew on your bottom lip. “Well...” How will you go about this? “We haven’t really talked about the contents of the letters since we fought,” you begin carefully. You look at his face for a reaction. There’s a frown, but he doesn’t say anything and he nods to let you know that he’s listening. So, you continue. “If the letters are real and what they contain is true, then we have a big problem on our hands. A problem we have to do something about, of course. So, I... I should like you to meet Mr Tepes.”

Trevor stares at the ceiling. His chest tightens as he thinks back on the letters. Especially the ones describing the massacre. He was almost sick after reading them. However, he’s not sure if that’s something he wants to talk about right now. Besides, the “problem” you mentioned is a far more pressing matter than his regrets. “If the letters are true, then that means my family’s arch-nemesis might soon be dealt with by infighting with other vampires. I have half a mind to let it happen. God knows it’ll save me a lot of work.”

“But Trevor, the _army_ —”

“I know,” he says, turning back to look at you. The corners of his blue eyes crinkle as he offers you a small, reassuring smile. “That’s why I said half a mind. I know that the two of us don’t stand a chance against an army of vampires.” He sighs, pausing to think. This whole situation is proving to be anything but ideal. He wishes more than ever that he had the rest of his family with him. His parents would surely have known what to do. Now he’s the one who has to figure it out... with you, of course. He’s grateful for that. Trevor winces a little at the memory of your fight. “When we argued yesterday, you said that this Mr Tepes came to you, looking for our help. Tell me more about him.”

You fidget a little with the fabric of his shirt. “He’s the dhampir son of Lord Tepes, who has apparently taken a human wife.”

“Dracula married a human?” Trevor asks, sounding genuinely surprised. He would have sat up straight if you weren’t hugging him. “And she married him willingly? Out of... love?” You think back to the conversation you had with Adrian, then nod. Trevor seems to almost deflate a little as he sinks a little into his pillow. “Good God. What has the world come to? Next thing you know pigs will start flying... Though, that might explain why he went under the radar the past few decades...”

"Adrian told me you'd be able to tell me more about Dracula," you say softly. "And the history he has with your family."

Trevor sighs. "Where to begin?" He chews on his bottom lip as he thinks. "Well, at the beginning, I suppose. Had Dracula not existed, I wouldn't have existed. I told you that my family made an oath, right?" You nod. "Leon Belmont was the one who made that oath. He did it after his close friend, Mathias Cronqvist, became a vampire. Became Dracula. Mathias' wife, Elisabetha, had died of illness. In his rage and grief, he looked for and found a way to defy God: by living for eternity."

"Oh," is all you say. There's a silence for a while as you take in the information. Dracula had become an evil, bitter man because he lost his first love. You don't think that it's an excuse for his actions, but you find yourself... Well, to your surprise, you find yourself feeling a bit of sympathy for the man.

Trevor clears his throat and looks at you. “What else did Dracula’s son say?”

“His name is Adrian,” you inform Trevor, who gives you an unimpressed look. “He said that even his father wouldn’t be able to face Carmilla’s forces on his own. That working together with him and his father is the lesser of two evils. And that Dracula is a changed man since he has remarried.”

Trevor’s face expression becomes grumpier. “A changed man? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I think you also changed after we got married,” you tell him with a cheeky smile, knowing he won’t be able to resist the bait.

“That’s _different_ ,” he protests. As expected.

“How is it different?”

“It just is.”

“I’d still like you to meet him, Trevor. You know more about these things than I do,” you say, pressing a kiss to his stubbled jaw. “You can get the whole story from him, and then we can make an informed decision together.” Trevor looks at you and immediately you give him your best smile and bat your lashes. “Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

He shouldn’t have looked at you. The moment you started fluttering those lashes, Trevor knew he couldn’t win anymore.


	8. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrian is invited to the Belmont Estate for a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than most, but it’s very plot-heavy. My posting schedule might be changed for the upcoming weekend, because I won’t be able to post on Sunday. From next week Wednesday onwards I’ll be back to my normal posting schedule, I think :) I hope you enjoy today’s chapter!

_Mr Tepes—_

_I would like to invite you to the Belmont Estate for tea. How does Thursday sound?_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Lady Belmont_

*

Thursday sounded perfectly fine to Adrian.

There was little point in hiring a carriage, even if it would have been the more appropriate way to arrive. Adrian is quicker on foot. When he approaches the sprawling grounds of the Estate and the grand building, though, he finds that there are no servants to give him weird looks for arriving on foot. In fact, there’s not a soul to be found outside in the lush gardens. He expects the stately building to need at least a small army of servants to stay up and running. Surely some of them would have duties outside, but Adrian can’t even spot a gardener. Strange. Did Lord and Lady Belmont instruct them all to stay inside? An amused smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He wouldn’t put it beyond them to be extra careful.

He knocks on the front door, then waits.

Within seconds it swings open, revealing a tall and lanky man with dark hair. The butler, judging by his livery. “Good afternoon. I take it you are Mr Tepes?” he asks rather stiffly. He momentarily glances out to the Estate grounds, no doubt to check for a carriage. He finds none, of course.

Adrian flashes him a polite smile, not bothering to hide his teeth. If Lord and Lady Belmont instructed all the servants to stay inside, then surely they would have also informed their servants of the identity of their guest. The butler, however, either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care to respond to it. “Indeed I am,” Adrian says. “You won’t be needing my card, then?”

The butler shakes his head and steps aside to let Adrian in. “Lord and Lady Belmont are already waiting for you in the drawing room.” He holds out his hand, and Adrian can tell that the butler is carefully scrutinising his every move. He knows. “May I take your coat?”

“Of course,” Adrian murmurs, shrugging it off and handing it over.

To the drawing room they go. The inside of the Estate is impressive, though not as impressive as his parents’ home. There aren’t many buildings that can hold a candle to the imposing architecture of Castlevania. Still, the home of the Belmonts has its charms, Adrian supposes. The interior of the Belmont Estate is elegant and stately, featuring mostly light and soft colours. Did Lady Belmont redecorate when she moved in here? From what he’s heard of Lord Belmont, he doesn’t exactly think pastels are much up his alley. Adrian looks at the portraits of the monster hunters put up on the walls as they pass them by. They all smile at him, but he’s sure that if they were here now that he’d be received very differently in their home.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the butler stops walking, then opens the door to the drawing room. Adrian is announced.

Both you and Trevor are already on your feet when he walks in. In the second before he bows, Adrian takes in his surroundings. The drawing room is decorated just like the rest of the house. Bright, stately, elegant, and spacious. There’s already tea and biscuits on the table. You were expecting him to be punctual, then. (You were right, of course.) A pianoforte is placed by the windows, of which one is a glass door. No doubt so you can play to entertain guests who are seated just outside on the patio during the summer. There are flowers in vases, but some look like they should have been replaced a few days ago. A portrait of you and Trevor together is put up above the fireplace. You’re posed close together, smiling at the viewer. He’ll admit that it’s done well enough, though he knows he could do a better job at capturing your likeness.

“Lord Belmont, Lady Belmont,” he says as he bows. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

Either Trevor doesn’t know that dhampirs have just as good hearing as vampires, or he doesn’t care. Regardless, Adrian hears Lord Belmont grumble a “would have preferred it if we never had to meet” under his breath.

You don’t seem to notice your husband’s offhand comment. You walk over to Adrian with a polite smile. “Please, there’s no need to bow. I’m so glad you could make it. How was the journey?”

“Perfectly fine, thank you for asking.” Adrian takes your gloved hand in his and presses a kiss to the back of it. “You look radiant as always.”

There’s nothing inappropriate about kissing the hand of a lady, even if it wasn’t _necessary_. You don’t mind and are completely unfazed by the gesture. Adrian will admit to himself, however, that he did it solely to see if he could get a rise out of Trevor. Judging by his sour expression and the way his jaw is clenched, it worked.

This amuses Adrian to no end.

Unaware of your husband’s desire to wring your guest’s neck, you smile and gesture at the refreshments. “Tea, anyone?”

*

Adrian takes his tea black, just like Trevor.

You make a point of it to commit it to memory, wanting to be a gracious hostess. After all, you can’t help but have this vague feeling that this won’t be the last time you’ll be having tea with the dhampir. Your only hope is that the next times won’t be so... painfully awkward. Neither Adrian nor Trevor are saying anything, sitting in armchairs on opposite sides of the low table that the tea and biscuits are set on. They’re just staring at each other, likely waiting for the other to speak. You’re seated on the sofa along the length of the table, and this has to be the fourth or fifth time that you’re smoothing out the muslin fabric of your dress.

“Shall I play something, perhaps?” you say and gesture at the pianoforte if only to break the silence.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, darling,” Trevor says, not taking his eyes off Adrian. He’s seated with his legs crossed, his ankle resting atop his right knee. His posture looks so confident and calm, but you know your husband better than that. He’s gripping the armrest tightly and his expression is beyond sour, the irritation and resentment very clear from his frown. For _some_ reason, his sword is propped up against the side of the armchair, very obviously put on display. He didn’t even bother keeping it in the scabbard.

Adrian just smiles, but he doesn’t look away from Trevor either. “Only if you want to, Lady Belmont. Might I say, though, that the biscuits are exquisite? Your cook certainly knows how to impress.”

You’re about to respond, but nearly jump in your seat when Trevor snaps, “Will you cut it out with the niceties? This is not a social call.” He points an accusing finger at Adrian. “Why the Hell didn’t you warn us when you knew about Carmilla’s plans to kill my family if you didn’t want us dead?”

You gasp. “ _Trevor_ —”

“It’s alright, Lady Belmont. Your husband is right,” Adrian says with a low voice, his expression darkening. “There’s no reason for us not to cut straight to the heart of the matter. You have my sincerest condolences for the loss of your family, Trevor Belmont, but I’m afraid the truth behind our silence is not very exciting. We did not know about Carmilla’s plans until after the tragedy had occurred. In fact, it was the massacre that spurred me to uncover the conspiracy.”

Trevor eyes him warily, not responding immediately. You chew on your bottom lip as you watch the exchange, not feeling like this is a good moment to speak up. “How convenient for your father, though,” Trevor says with a clipped tone. “That his enemies would be wiped out without having to lift a finger.”

“If you are doubting my father’s innocence—”

“Innocence?” Trevor lets out a short, bitter laugh. “You and I both know that there isn’t an innocent bone in your father’s body. No, I’m doubting whether your father will suffer or profit from this situation.”

You have a feeling the tea in the pot will go cold. Miss Lynch won’t be happy with that. At least Millie and Bartley will surely finish the biscuits.

“My father,” Adrian says very slowly, enunciating every word as he speaks, “is not the man he once was.”

“So I’ve been told. Forgive me, though, for thinking that a vampire who has been killing innocents for over half a millennium won’t change just because he happened to get married,” Trevor snaps.

“Good God, _Trevor_!” you say, sounding exasperated. “We didn’t invite Mr Tepes here so you could pick a fight with him! Can we shift the focus away from debating Lord Tepes’s morality and instead look at the things we’re sure of? Namely that this Carmilla wants to turn all of Britain into her personal pantry?”

The two of them shut their mouths and stare at each other. Then Trevor sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I let myself get carried away.” After lowering his hand he glares at Adrian and adds, “That apology was intended for my wife only.”

“I figured.”

The conversation is finally steered into the direction that it should have from the very beginning. You feel like your hair might start greying prematurely if you have to listen to any more of their passive-aggressive bickering. You turn to Adrian and begin, “Mr Tepes—”

“Adrian is fine,” he interrupts with a smile.

You nod. “Then I insist you call me by my given name as well. Can you tell us more about Carmilla?” you ask him, then pour yourself another cup of tea. It’s gone lukewarm. Good enough, you suppose.

“You’ve likely already surmised from the letters I’ve given you what kind of person she is,” Adrian says, a grim expression on his face. “She’s ambitious, cunning, and has a sadistic streak. If there’s anyone who would be able to rally enough vampires to wage a war against my father and _win_ , it’ll be her. She has gathered a large following already, and I fear that they may be planning to strike before the year’s end.” He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair, looking just a little nervous. “My father is aware of the conspiracy, but Carmilla and her followers do not know this. We want to keep it this way. We’re afraid she might bring the attack forward otherwise, before we have time to prepare.”

“Makes sense,” Trevor mumbles, actually looking like he’s thinking about the problem now rather than about something mean and clever to say to Adrian. “You said she’s already gathered a large following. How large?”

“No less than ten powerful vampires already from all over the globe. Each of them brings their own servants and followers, and Carmilla herself already has many soldiers bound to her will.” Adrian lets out a short sigh. “I’m working on getting numbers, but it looks like there’s so many it’ll be virtually impossible for us to face them all. They haven’t all reached Britain yet. We should aim to end this before they do.”

You chew on your bottom lip, staring at your cup of tea as you think. “She’s smart, doing this now.” Trevor and Adrian both turn to look at you, and you shrug listlessly in response. “If we taught every soldier in Britain how to kill a vampire, she’d never succeed at taking the Isles. But virtually every soldier in Britain is on the continent now, fighting for England. And I don’t think the Prince Regent will take us very seriously if we tell him that the bigger threat is on this side of the Channel. Frankly, it doesn’t look like we have many options.”

Trevor’s brows furrow in thought. “Adrian—”

“I thought I only gave your wife permission to call me by my given name,” Adrian says with a lighthearted tone, clearly joking around.

Trevor glares at him while you stifle a chuckle behind a gloved hand. The mood had turned so serious and depressing, it was almost suffocating. The innocent joke is a welcome reprieve. Ignoring him, Trevor continues, “You mentioned that not all soldiers have reached Britain yet. Do you think they’ll come here through magical means or by sea?”

“Transporting such large numbers would be virtually impossible through magical means unless Carmilla has a transmission mirror the same size as my father’s, which I highly doubt. Most likely their forces will be arriving by sea. My best bet is she’ll head straight for London. It’s where my parents’ home is currently located.”

Trevor blinks. “I thought your father lived in a castle.”

Adrian smirks, an expression that Trevor finds annoying. Then again, there’s not much he _doesn’t_ find annoying about the dhampir. “It’s very well-hidden.”

You ignore their short exchange, still lost in thought. You stare at the teacup in your hands as the gears turn in your head. “Marcus has more of a mind for military strategy than I do, but... I’m pretty sure at least a portion of the Royal Navy is currently engaged in the war with France. Stopping their trades, and such. It means England doesn’t have her full naval defensive power...” You look up. “Didn’t the letters mention a, um... Godbrand?”

“They did,” Adrian says with a nod. “He’s a Viking. He’s been around for far too long if you ask me.”

“Do you think his fleet would be big enough to take London?” you ask quietly.

“It might be. I’m not sure. Once again, I don’t have exact numbers.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air as the three of you try to think of what you could possibly do. You’re faced with such an impossibly big threat and such a daunting task, it’s hard to stay optimistic. If someone had told you a year ago that someday you would be tasked with stopping an army of vampires from invading Britain, you would have laughed at them. Yet here you are.

Trevor’s voice breaks the silence. “Sounds like our best bet is to cut off the head of their operations. We’ll be able to take action quickly, and there will be less chance of unwanted collateral damage, too.”

“Would that work?” you ask, your eyes flitting up with hope. “Say we killed Carmilla and her most powerful followers. Would that be enough for their structure to crumble?”

Adrian frowns as he thinks. “I’ve thought about it as well, and I think it might. But I would need more information to be sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if she put in a structure or a system that can proceed with or without her leading it.”

You nod slowly. “More information, then... Where does she operate from?”

“London, I suspect. Though I suppose that’s not much of a surprise to you. It’s a big city, easy enough to stay hidden and to pluck a poor soul off the streets at night whenever she needs to feed. And she’ll be conveniently there to receive her forces so she can lead them straight to my parents’ home.” He leans a little further back into his chair. “If we agree to work together to stop her, then I’ll be heading straight for the capital to gather more information. I also know someone there who might be able to help us.”

Trevor hums and looks at you. “London it is, then. I’ll have to take my seat in Parliament once October rolls around, so we’ll just head there a little earlier.” He offers Adrian a wry smile. “After all, we ought to keep our friends close and our enemies closer.”

*

“Do you have any specific instructions for us before you go, Lady Belmont?” Miss Lynch asks, standing tall and proud.

You shake your head and smile. “No. I’m quite confident leaving the Estate in your capable hands. I do not think any additional instructions are necessary.”

Judging by her smile, that seemed to have been the best answer you could have given.

Millie chews on her bottom lip, looking like a bundle of nervous energy. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to come with, ma’am? I’ll gladly follow you to London. I guarantee, I can have my things packed within a minute.”

“I’m sure, Millie,” you say for what feels like the millionth time that day. You can’t help but smile, though. You’ll miss her too. “Belmont House is already staffed properly. Besides, you wouldn’t leave Miss Lynch to her own devices with all these men, would you?”

Mr Clark loudly clears his throat. “We’re right here, Lady Belmont, and we can hear you perfectly fine,” he points out with an indignant look on his face.

Hudson and Bartley seem to take no offence, though, as they smile and chuckle.

You think Mr Whitlock might have had something clever to say if he were in earshot, but he’s not. Instead, he’s speaking to Trevor, who’s already standing by the carriage. You smile to yourself, thinking that your husband looks quite handsome in that dark blue coat. Then again, you think he looks handsome wearing anything.

(You think he looks most handsome wearing nothing.)

Trevor crosses his arms with a smile. “I’ll be leaving the lands to your expert care then, Mr Whitlock. I expect the ledgers to be wholly correct and in perfect condition by the time I return next year.” Mr Whitlock raises his brows, and Trevor just grins. “Write to me to let me know how the Greens are faring, will you? And if their sons return from the frontlines.” Then with a quieter voice, he adds, “And if there’s any supernatural threat at all—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Mr Whitlock says, interrupting Trevor as if he’s heard the drill over a thousand times already. (He has.) “Gather as many people in the Estate to keep them safe, make sure the wards are in working order, contact you using the mirror, and then stay put until you and your wife arrive. I could probably do it with my eyes closed by now.”

Trevor nods in approval.

As you see the conversation between your husband and the steward begins to come to a close, you turn to look at the staff with a bittersweet smile. “Well, this is goodbye for now, then. I’ll miss you all. I’ll be sure to write regularly.”

Everyone calls out their goodbyes to you, Mr Whitlock joining the rest of the staff. You walk down the path to the carriage, but before you climb on you turn around to look at the Belmont Estate one last time. A sigh escapes your lips. Over the past few months that you’ve stayed here, you’ve transformed the empty house into a home again. The staff has become like family to you, filling the Estate with much-needed liveliness. The Belmont Estate has truly become _your_ home as well, and you know without a doubt in your heart that you’re going to miss it.

One day you’ll raise your own family here, together with Trevor. You’re sure of it.

Your husband calls out your name, pulling your attention towards him. He’s standing by the open door of the carriage, his hand held out to you.

“Come on,” Trevor tells you with a gentle smile. “It’s time to go.”


	9. High Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord and Lady Belmont return to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Lunar New Year to those of you who celebrate it! If you don’t celebrate it, just enjoy today’s new chapter ;) First scene is smut, the rest is a little more slice of life before we jump into the deep end. Enjoy!

It’s a long way to London.

Last time you made this journey, you travelled from the capital to the Estate. You had left in the evening and had to make an overnight stop. This time you left early in the morning, so you should be in the city before nightfall. You won’t have a repeat of your wedding night at the roadside inn, sadly.

You’ve already sent a missive ahead to Carter House to let them know you’ll be stopping by before retiring to Belmont House. (You just realise that neither your family nor Trevor’s family was particularly creative with naming their properties.) Aunt Sophia will be thrilled to have you in her home again, and you’re sure Marcus will be happy to see you too. Carter House officially belongs to him, but aunt Sophia and Prudence and Grace still live there. It’s because Marcus has not married yet that neither his mother nor his sisters are showing any inclination towards moving out.

“What’s on your mind?” Trevor asks, his voice gently pulling you out of your thoughts.

You blink, turning to look at him. Then you smile warmly. “Just thinking about my family. I know Prudence and Grace have visited us only recently, but we haven’t seen aunt Sophia and Marcus in a long time. It’s almost been a half year.”

“They didn’t go back to the country home this year, did they?”

You shake your head. “No. The steward’s managing everything just fine, and I think the memory of my uncle’s passing is still too painful for my aunt.” You sigh, looking out the window at the rolling hills that slowly pass you by. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you died. Cry a river, probably. Maybe even an ocean.” You shoot him a wry smile, but there’s a bit of genuine sadness behind it. You’re painfully aware of the fact that your husband leads a dangerous life. The possibility of you becoming a widow at a young age is a very real one. It scares you.

Trevor seems to pick up on this, somehow. He doesn’t want you to feel bad, so he’ll try to make you smile. With a lazy grin, he tells you, “I’m not dead yet and neither am I planning to die anytime soon. There’s no need to burden yourself with such depressing thoughts. You should know better than anyone that I’m impossible to get rid of.” He grabs your hand and pulls you onto his lap, where you sit with your legs across his. He’d keep you on his lap forever if it were up to him, holding you in his arms. Your lips and your neck and your collarbone are all perfectly in reach for him. There’s no better way to have you close, he thinks.

“Yes, you’re quite right.” You put your arms around his shoulder and give him the sweetest smile you can manage. “Impossible to get rid of, like a pest.”

His grin is wiped off his face. “Maybe I should discipline you for speaking to me like that,” he growls in an attempt to threaten you.

You let out a laugh, knowing very well that Trevor would never dare to do anything of the sort. “Is that so?” You bat your lashes with a pout, moving your hands to cup his face. “What will you do to your poor wife then, Lord Belmont?”

A devious grin suddenly blooms on Trevor’s face, and you know exactly what kind of inappropriate idea he has just from the look in his eyes. It makes you wonder if he would really go through with it. You’re rather curious and a little excited to find out. His hands move to hold your waist, and he smiles devilishly. You can feel the heat of his skin almost burn through your dress. “It’s a long ride to London. I think I know a suitable punishment.”

“Is it still a punishment if I’m going to enjoy it?” you say with a low voice, then bite on your bottom lip as you try to suppress a smile.

Trevor doesn’t answer your question, instead lifting you up to turn you towards him so you’re straddling his lap, and then immediately roughly pulling you in for a kiss. The spontaneity thrills you and, though the chance is small, so does the risk of being caught in this inappropriate position. You moan against his lips while you feel his hands move to push up the skirt of your dress and have the fabric bunch up around your hips. He pulls at the ribbon that keeps your bonnet tied together. The hat slides off your head and falls onto the floor. You couldn’t care less, Trevor can do whatever he wants with you right now and you wouldn’t utter a single word of protest. Your body burns for him, and you want him with every fibre of your being. From the way he kisses you, you know he feels the same way. Desperately you grind down on his crotch and feel his arousal growth with every moan, every nibble at his lips, and every whispered declaration of want and need.

You move to kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, and then the skin of his neck just above his cravat, sucking and kissing just to draw out those pants and groans and moans from his lips. You taste his salty skin on your tongue while the smell of sandalwood and Trevor’s own scent seems to intoxicate you, leaving your mind blank. You don’t have to think with any of your movements. Your body knows what to do and how to react to every single of his noises and ministrations.

When you suck and bite just a little harder to leave a mark, you hear Trevor swear under his breath. He’ll have to wear his cravat a little higher after this. He chastises you with a low growl, telling you what a tease you are, then roughly palms your breasts through the fabric of your dress. Your heat is already slick with arousal, and you whimper his name as he trails his fingertips over your skin and squeezes you in all the right places. His hands undo the buttons on the back of your dress and he roughly pulls down your neckline to finally reveal your chest to him. You gasp and throw your head back when he takes a nipple in his mouth, greedily sucking and tracing his tongue around it.

“Trevor,” you moan, feeling desperate. “Please, I want you.”

Immediately you feel him grin against your skin. He stops touching you, then sits back with a lazy, _infuriating_ smile on his face. “What was that? Sorry, I don’t think I heard you right.”

Your cheeks flush red with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. Of course he would leave you in this needy state, exposed and aroused, just to get back at you. “Is _this_ your punishment?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A dark look flashes across your eyes and without hesitating you grind down on him. Trevor inhales sharply, then he frowns. You just smile sweetly at him. “Is something the matter?”

His hands grab your rear and give it a squeeze before moving to your hips and dragging you down onto him. You let out a content sigh, the friction feeling just right. “You, woman, are impossible,” he growls when his lips find your neck and chest again.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” you state simply, and know that it’s the truth.

Finally just as impatient as you are, Trevor undoes the laces of his breeches and frees his throbbing erection. The tip is already slick, making you even more impatient than you already are. You wrap your fingers around his length to guide him into you. Then you slowly lower yourself. A shuddering gasp passes your lips. It’s a feeling you’ll never get used to, being filled up like that. Slowly you let him stretch you out, bit by bit, and you hope you’ll never get used to it because it feels like Heaven. You bite on your bottom lip to suppress a moan when he’s completely inside you. Trevor kisses your jaw and whispers, “You can be loud if you want to, I’m sure the driver won’t hear us.”

“You are a fiend,” you murmur, putting your hands on his chest, fingers digging into the dark fabric of his waistcoat.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” Trevor drawls with a cocky smile.

Then before you can chastise him, he holds your hips and begins bouncing you in his lap. You gasp, chest rising and falling with quickened breaths from the excitement. Trevor watches you with half-lidded eyes, grinning proudly at the mess you’ve turned into. Your cheeks and chest are flushed with arousal. Your dress just barely clings onto your frame, leaving just the right parts exposed. Your nipples are perky, and he quite likes the view of your breasts bouncing as he moves you along his length. The way your hair has been pinned up is slowly coming undone, which he doesn’t mind at all. He likes you much better with your hair down and is beyond pleased to be among the privileged few to see it on a regular basis. A groan escapes his lips. You’re tight, you’re slick, and you’re hot, and he’s not sure how much longer he can last when he’s inside you like this.

Every time you come back down onto him, you’re filled up again just right, and Trevor does it over and over and over every time he roughly pulls you down. All you can do is helplessly mewl and moan, surrendering control to Trevor and letting him do whatever he wants to you just so he can push you over the edge. Your fingers dig into his shoulders. It’s all so much. Your excitement, and the way he’s looking at you and, God, the feeling of his full length every time you’re brought down on him. He’s so hard, and you want him, you want all of him, you want to find your climax so desperately that it almost makes you forget your own name.

You arch your back, eyes screwing shut as you feel your ending come near. Trevor notices this and he brings his mouth to your ear. You feel his hot breath on your skin when he purrs to you, “That’s my girl. Come for me.”

The words take you by surprise, thrilling you to your very core. It takes only a few more times of him roughly dragging you down for you to fall apart, gasping as you feel waves of pleasure wash over you. Trevor lets out a curse under his breath, fingers digging into your hips and filling you up fully one last time before he groans and finishes inside you.

You’re both panting and sweaty.

You really, really hope that the carriage driver didn’t notice.

You look at Trevor, and he looks at you, and both of you can’t help but try not to laugh. “We’re worse than rabbits,” you tell him, covering your hand to stifle your giggle.

“You might be right about that,” Trevor says, a giddy smile on his face.

*

London is exactly as you remember is.

So is Carter House.

Aunt Sophia smothers you in a hug the second after you step across the threshold into the home. “Oh my darling niece!” she cries out, pressing a loving, maternal kiss to your cheek. She holds you at arm’s length to give you a good look. “Oh, your hair is in such a mess, does your maid at the Estate not know how to do your hair properly? I’ll call Flora to fix it for you.” You try to interject and explain that Millie does your hair just fine, but aunt Sophia is having nothing of it as she chatters on, interrogating both you and Trevor. “This dress is so nice on you, sweetheart, but it’s a little loose on your frame. You should be wearing something a little tighter around the chest, I think. Have you lost weight? Trevor, are you not feeding your wife enough?”

Trevor quickly puts up his hands defensively. “She can eat as much as her heart desires.”

“Heavens, mother, they’ve only just arrived.,” Marcus calls out, quickly coming down the stairs. “At this rate, you’ll scare them away before they’ve even had a chance to have a drink with us.” He shares a quick hug with Trevor, patting him on the back. “It’s good to see you, Belmont!” Then he grins at you. “And you too, my little cousin.”

You stick out your tongue at him and feel twelve again.

It’s good to be back.

When you’re all seated in the informal drawing room, the butler goes around servings drinks. However, aunt Sophia cries out a “wait!” just as you’re about to take your glass of white wine. You freeze. All eyes are on her. Then a sly smile blooms on her face and she asks, “Should you perhaps be taking lemonade instead, like Prudence and Grace?”

You blink. Then the cogs start turning in your head, and quickly you splutter a protest. Now everybody is staring at you. Your cheeks flush when you say, “No! I’m not pregnant if that’s what you’re thinking.” You take the glass from the butler, who hurries along. He clearly has no desire to be included in this conversation.

“Oh,” aunt Sophia says, looking decidedly disappointed. “I thought you would be making an announcement tonight, with how you so urgently wanted to visit.”

“That was because we haven’t seen you and Marcus in a long time, and we want to give the staff at Belmont House some extra time to prepare before we get settled in,” you explain, huffing a little. You don’t really want to talk about this, especially not in the company of so many people. You can already imagine the many different routes this conversation can take, and none of them seems particularly appealing. So, to put your aunt’s mind to rest, you say with a tone of finality, “If I were expecting, I would have told you the moment I knew. Written a letter, likely.”

Aunt Sophia hums in thought, then smiles sweetly. Your “tone of finality” never works on her. “So, you _are_ trying then?”

Trevor almost chokes on his drink, actually having to turn away and set his glass down to recover. His cheeks have flushed a deep shade of crimson, which he’s trying to hide behind a handkerchief. Marcus looks like he would rather be literally anywhere else. In fact, he looks like he would prefer crawling into a hole and dying to hearing this conversation. Prudence and Grace just blink, seemingly unaware of why the two men present look so uncomfortable. You’re guessing your aunt hasn’t given them “the talk” yet. You loudly clear your throat and then mumble, “We do want to have children, eventually, yes.” Quickly you lift your glass to your lips and take a sip, if only to have an excuse to stay quiet.

“Can we _please_ talk about something else?” Marcus begs. “I’m very happy to hear that our family will be expanding sooner than later, but I’d rather not learn about the details.” Trevor is still coughing into his handkerchief, pointedly looking away.

“Why not?” Prudence and Grace say in unison, but they’re promptly ignored.

“Yes! Let’s talk about something else. _Perhaps_ we should talk about how _you’re_ still not married and thus not giving me any grandchildren,” aunt Sophia says accusingly to her eldest.

Marcus grimaces. “Any other suggestions for conversation topics?” Prudence and Grace put up their hands, and he immediately adds, “From anyone whose surname _isn’t_ Carter?”

Trevor, who Marcus now sees as his saviour, quickly says, “You could bring us up to speed on what has happened in London while we were gone. It has been almost a half year for us, I’m sure there’s plenty to tell.”

“An excellent suggestion, Belmont,” Marcus says, sitting a little straighter and lifting his glass to him. “Now, where to begin?” The two of them begin talking politics, and you can see the life leave Prudence and Grace’s eyes. You chuckle. You’re not sure if you should tell them that this is what married life will look like for them too, or just let them find out themselves.

You begin conversing separately with your aunt and your younger cousins, catching up and inquiring about their social lives in the capital. It’s good to hear that the city has remained unchanged during your time away. It puts your mind to rest, especially now you have to worry about Carmilla lurking around in every shadow. Mentally you make a note to tell your family not to go out after dark if they can avoid it. You’ll have to think of a good excuse for that, though, considering most balls end after dark...

Eventually, the subject of the conversation shifts back to you. “How’s life as a real Lady?” aunt Sophia asks you with a proud smile.

“It’s... Well, it’s hard work,” you say with a chuckle. “I’m much busier than I used to be. When I was still a debutante, I was just attending social events at my every whim. Now I barely have time to read. The Estate has a very impressive library, but I’ve only finished two books so far.”

Your words don’t go unnoticed by your cousin and your husband. “For shame, Trevor. Are you putting my poor cousin to work?” Marcus asks, obviously teasing.

“You say that as if I had any say in the matter.”

You shoot Trevor a dirty look from across the drawing room, but he just grins in response.

“By the way!” aunt Sophia says with an excited smile, changing the subject of the conversation again, “Speaking of social events, the first ball of the season has already been announced. Lady Harrington is hosting it in her city home. I’ve already heard rumours from the servants and it sounds like it’ll be positively _grand_.”

“That’s early,” you say and blink. “I bet half the lords haven’t even returned to London yet.”

Aunt Sophia shrugs. “I know, but you know how it is with wanting to have the honour of opening the season. _Anyhow_ , I’m sure you’ll get an invitation to it sooner than later. Even after you left for the countryside, the ton was still abuzz because of the two of you.” She smiles knowingly. “Everyone wants to know how the Lord and Lady Belmont are doing.”

Trevor raises a brow. “Does the ton not have anything better to do?”

“It’s London high society,” Marcus says, wearing a grin. “Of course not.”

*

Belmont House is up and running by the time you arrive. The staff seems to appreciate the extra time they got when you visited Carter House. Stepping into the hallway, you look around with a smile. The spot you’re standing is the exact spot where Trevor had kissed you for the first time. It feels like ages ago, but it has only been a few months. Last time you were here, you were his fiancée. Now, you’re his wife.

You’re not sure if Trevor read your mind or if he just happens to be in an affectionate mood, but he presses a kiss to your cheek before walking past you.

Both of you packed light when you left for the capital, having to leave on rather short notice. There’s no time to waste when there’s a vampire army breathing down your neck, after all. However, this means that most of your extensive wardrobe has been left behind in the countryside. ”I’ll have to visit the modiste sooner than later,” you tell Trevor after slipping into bed, immediately cuddling up to him. There are few things as comfortable and gratifying as cosying up to your husband, especially because he’s warm most of the time. (He doesn’t appreciate it when you rub your cold legs against his, but that’s not enough to stop you.)

“For even more dresses?” Trevor asks, putting an arm around you to pull you a little closer.

“I packed _five_ and only one of them is suitable to wear to a ball. I can’t wear the same dress to two fêtes in a row,” you tell him. After huffing, you add, “Just because you don’t remember the dresses I wear, doesn’t mean the rest of the ton doesn’t either.”

“I remember the important dresses,” Trevor drawls. “Namely the ones I get to rip off of you.”

You lightly smack him on the arm, though you do feel your cheeks flush. “If you ever ask me again why I have to make an appointment with the modiste so often, I’ll point you to the mountain of dresses that were torn by your hands.”

Trevor chuckles. It’s that chuckle that’s so typically him. Confident, a little lazy, and good-spirited. It rumbles in his chest, and you wish you could stay here with him forever.

You both sleep well that night, in part because of the alcohol you had at Carter House, but also because of the weariness from the journey. Getting settled in wasn’t so much of a challenge, especially not with the help of the staff. It was just some unpacking and making sure the house was fully stocked. You really don’t get why some families can take weeks to “settle in” before they show their faces at social events.

However, you feel like you’re starting to understand a little over breakfast the next morning.

It’s just you and Trevor at the breakfast table, the relationship with the staff here not being quite as informal as at the Estate. It’s so much quieter with just the two of you, especially now you’re not saying anything to each other. Trevor is frowning while he spears a sausage onto his fork with far more force than necessary. You eye him warily while you chew on your muffin. When he catches you staring, he just deadpans, “What?”

Not seeing the point in beating around the bush, you say, “You’re in a bad mood. Why?”

“Is it that obvious?” he grumbles.

“You looked like you were trying to kill that sausage.”

He grunts in response, taking a bite from his food. You just continue eating and patiently wait, knowing that he’ll speak up eventually to answer your question. It’s just a matter of time. In the meantime, you inspect your porcelain teacup and the intricate floral patterns painted along the rim. It’s after he sets down his fork that he talks again. “I’m going to be busy.”

“Oh?” You’re not really surprised, of course, but you’re mostly wondering why that would put him in such a foul mood. “What’s on your schedule today, then?”

Trevor sighs, sinking into his chair a little. “I’ve got two meetings today. One with the family solicitor to review the state of our financial holdings, and one with our primary estate manager.” Sarcasm dripping from his voice, he adds, “Who would have thought being at war with France would complicate things when your family has property in France.”

You try not to smile. “I never would have guessed.”

He shoots you a look. Running a hand through his chestnut hair, he says, “That isn’t what has put me in a bad mood, though. I already knew those appointments were coming up, I arranged them ahead of time when I knew we would be returning to London.” He gets up from his spot at the table and walks over to the windowsill, where he picks up a small pile of papers. Holding them out to you, he says, “ _This_ is what put me in a bad mood.”

As you look through the notes and cards, your eyes widen. “ _Eight_ invitations?” You look up at Trevor. “I see one for the ball that aunt Sophia mentioned, but the rest... Heavens, _three_ invitations for dinner?”

“I thought your aunt was joking last night. Apparently not. Half the ton wants to know what we’re up to, it seems.”

“We’ve only arrived yesterday,” you say, your mind boggled by how quickly the other members of London’s high society jumped on the opportunity to get in touch with you. You put down the stack of invitations on the breakfast table. “What do we do? If we say yes to one of them, we have to say yes to all of them. We can’t go cherrypicking, or tongues will start wagging.”

Trevor shrugs. “It’s London, tongues will always wag. We should just do what we want.”

You take out one of the cards. “This one’s inviting you back to the gentlemen’s club. Will you go?”

He groans. “I don’t want to. You know how much I hate it there, having to talk to the other lords. It’s always the same story with them. Sometimes there are fresh faces, but they’re all the same. I really don’t know how my father did it. If I could die of boredom, I would have expired three times over by now just from my visits to that club.” He sighs, crossing his arms. “Still... I don’t think I can get out of this one. Especially not with the first session of Parliament around the corner. Maybe if Marcus comes along, it’ll be more tolerable.”

You shoot him a sly smile. “I thought we should just do what we want because tongues will always wag?”

Trevor is about to protest, likely something along the lines of insisting that it’s “not the same”, when a footman walks into the breakfast room. He’s holding another card. Upon spotting it your husband immediately says, “Please tell me that’s not another Goddamn invitation.”

“Afraid so, Lord Belmont.”

“Trevor, you shouldn’t blaspheme in front of other people,” you remind him sternly.

“It’s my home, I’ll blaspheme as much as I like.” He takes the card from the footman, who quickly excuses himself and leaves. Much to your surprise, Trevor doesn’t frown when he reads the card. “It’s from Adrian.”

You sit up a little straighter. “Oh, what does it say?”

*

_There is a bookstore on Bond Street by the name of The Paper Trail. Meet me there Friday, at noon._

_A._


	10. After Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevor is pulled back into politics, much to his dismay. Meanwhile, his wife is out after dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the chapter I was supposed to post yesterday. I'll be back on Wednesday with the normal posting schedule. Enjoy!

The air is marked by the smell of smoke and alcohol. A low chatter accompanies it. Occasionally obnoxious laughter rises up above the background noise. Trevor wants another drink. He really, really does. However, he won’t. He knows he shouldn’t overindulge. Besides, no matter how much he wants to get drunk to block out the sound of the other patrons, he knows he’ll need a clear and sober mind if somebody actually wants to have a serious conversation with him.

He’s not about to make a fool of himself.

“Did you hear that?” Marcus asks Trevor with a low voice.

“What, the grating sound of old men laughing at their own jokes?” Trevor grumbles.

Marcus raises a brow, but an amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Sheesh, lighten up, will you? I just heard someone say that Buckman has been missing for so long that he’s been presumed dead. His title and wealth are going to a distant cousin of his.”

That’s a name Trevor hasn’t heard in a long time, and thankfully so. “I thought there wasn’t much wealth in the first place,“ he mumbles. He thinks about how desperately the old man had wanted to marry off his daughter, Odessa. Desperate enough to try to lure Trevor into a trap. Try and fail, of course. Trevor wouldn’t be married to you, otherwise. Still, he can’t help but feel a little sorry for Odessa. Judging by the short conversations they had, she seemed like a nice girl. Trevor will admit that she was pretty too, in a very conventional way. It’s unfortunate that her father scared off so many perfectly respectable suitors.

“Apparently Buckman had gambled most of the family’s fortune away,” Marcus says with a shrug, taking another sip from his drink. “The new lord will have to fix the problems left behind.”

“I’m glad I’m not him.”

“You could say that again.”

This repeats itself a couple more times. The two men sit in silence, Marcus hears something interesting, he remarks on it, Trevor responds with minimal effort, and then they go silent again. Trevor is fine with the silence. Marcus isn’t the kind of person who feels the need to fill every second with words, and he’s grateful for that. Occasionally this repeating loop is interrupted when somebody approaches them to speak with either Trevor, Marcus, or both. It’s never a pleasant interruption — until the fourth time it happens.

“Carter, Belmont,” a familiar voice calls out. The two men turn to look at the source of the sound, and they see a familiar face indeed. Lord Jonathan Burke walks over with long strides, wearing a warm smile that is very suited to him. Trevor suddenly feels the need to thank whatever higher power is listening that you chose to marry him, and not Jonathan. Lord Burke was tougher competition than Trevor would have liked to admit while he was still sort-of-but-not-really courting you. Whether or not Jonathan realises this, he’ll never know. The man just continues wearing his kind, charming smile and says, “It’s been a while.”

Marcus sits a little straighter, grinning at Jonathan. “It has indeed. Why don’t you join us? Your company is a pleasant change from Belmont’s constant brooding.”

Trevor shoots Marcus a glare, who pretends not to see. He clears his throat and sits a little straighter as well. He likes the man enough to at least _try_ to behave a little more proper around him. Trevor turns to Jonathan and, just to get the polite pleasantries out of the way, asks him, “How have you been?”

He’s not sure what he expected, but he didn’t expect Jonathan to positively beam at him. “I’ve been fantastic, actually. I got married in the summer.” Marcus and Trevor’s eyes widen, and immediately they offer him their congratulations. Jonathan chuckles bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve got our first child on our way, too. I’m a lucky man.”

Trevor is sure that the rest of the conversation is very pleasant, but he’s not paying much attention as Marcus and Jonathan continue talking. He almost wouldn’t admit it to himself, but the feeling claws at the recesses of his mind to the point that he cannot deny its existence anymore. He’s jealous, and even if he’s only a little jealous, the ugly, unpleasant feeling is still there. Jonathan has only been married for a few months at most and is already going to become a father. It’s not unheard of, of course. (Hell, more than enough children are born in less than a few months after the wedding... go figure.)

However, for some reason, Trevor feels jealous _because_ it’s Jonathan.

Jonathan, who had been vying for your hand for as long as Trevor had when you were still a debutante. Maybe even longer. Jonathan, who captivated you with his kindness, his warmth, and his soft-spoken attitude. Jonathan, who would have proposed to you, had you not run away from him that night. He really loved you, Trevor thinks bitterly.

Suddenly, out of the blue, a question crosses his mind. He really wishes it hadn’t, because it feels like he’s stabbed himself in the heart. Yet he can’t help but wonder, as he’s looking at Jonathan’s smiling face. He can’t help but wonder.

If you had married Jonathan instead of Trevor, would you already have had children by now?

The thought leaves him with a hollow feeling. He remembers how you had cried when you bled, upset because you hadn’t been successful at conceiving a child. The possibility that Trevor can’t give you children terrifies him. How would he even know? He takes a shaky breath, feeling his mouth go dry.

He only realises that more people have joined in on the conversation when he hears a grating laugh. His eyes regain focus and he blinks for a moment before looking at the balding man who laughed. If you pointed a gun at Trevor and asked him to remember the man’s name, he wouldn’t be able to. He’s probably not important, then.

Sadly, it’s hard to ignore him.

“I’m sure you both are enjoying your lives as newlyweds,” the balding man says with a slimy grin. “Especially with such comely wives. Word of advice though, Lord Burke, you should enjoy your wife a little more before she gives birth. Afterwards, there won’t be much left to enjoy!”

There’s laughter, but Trevor isn’t laughing. Neither are Marcus and Jonathan. Especially Jonathan looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now, his knuckles turning white from how tightly he’s gripping the armrest of his chair. He’s never been one for confrontation. The balding man continues spewing his revolting “jokes”, each of them making Trevor feel sicker and sicker. All of them directly involve either you or Jonathan’s wife. His blood is starting to boil.

No, Jonathan has never been one for confrontation. Luckily, Trevor isn’t Jonathan.

He stands up so quickly that it makes some of the lords jump a little. “You don’t get to talk about our wives like that,” Trevor says with a low voice. “Now I suggest you leave very quickly before I let your face get acquainted with my fist.”

“I beg your pardon?” the balding man splutters.

Trevor gives a smile laced with nothing but hostility. He knows the perfect answer to that question, and he’s proud to say he learned it from you. “Then beg.”

Quickly the small crowd disperses, muttering amongst themselves as they leave. Trevor allows himself to sink back into his armchair, sighing deeply as he does so. It would have been better if he had stayed home, he thinks. Marcus gives him a pat on the shoulder, but doesn’t say anything. A heavy silence hangs between the three of them for a while, before Jonathan finally breaks it.

“Thank you, Belmont,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. He gives Trevor a difficult smile. “I don’t think I would have had the guts to do that.”

“It’s fine,” Trevor mumbles, waving it off. “You’re too sensible to do something like that.”

Jonathan chuckles, but there’s no humour behind it. “I suppose that’s one of the kinder ways to say it.” He gets up and offers both Trevor and Marcus a polite nod. “I think I’ll be heading home now. Good evening.”

Trevor watches Jonathan leave and a realisation slowly dawns on him. Jonathan felt guilty for not being able to stand up for his wife. He sinks a little deeper into his armchair, almost surprised that was even possible. He’s not the only one struggling to be what they think is a good husband. For some reason, the thought leaves him feeling dispirited, rather than hopeful.

*

You’re spending the afternoon with your family, while Trevor and Marcus are “busy” at their gentlemen’s club. You doubt that there’s much productivity happening there, but who are you to judge? All you’ve done is have tea and biscuits, and allow yourself to indulge in the gossip that your aunt didn’t want to divulge with the men around.

The conversation eventually shifts to the upcoming Harrington ball that everyone is very much excited for. Including, even though you wouldn’t admit it out loud, you. It’s been a while since you’ve attended a proper ball. The last one being... Well, before you were married. Once again you’ll be able to wear a beautiful gown, talk and laugh with your family and friends, and dance the night away with Trevor. The thought puts a giddy smile on your face.

“We’re wearing matching gowns to the ball,” Prudence tells you with a sly smile. “Midnight blue,” Grace adds.

You raise a brow with a thoughtful look on your face. “How would your potential suitors be able to tell you apart?”

“That’s precisely the point.” “If they’re worthy of us, they’ll be able to tell us apart.” “Otherwise, they’re not deserving of our affections.”

Aunt Sophia shoots you a pleading look from across the room, clearly asking you to talk them out of this idea. You pretend not to see. “I think it’s brilliant,” you tell your cousins with a proud grin. You’re sure they’ll turn the entire Marriage Mart upside down.

“We thought so too,” the twins say in unison, holding their heads high.

You chuckle. You can’t wait to see that unfold. It’s while your aunt makes another futile attempt to convince her daughters to _not_ do that, that you notice that the sky outside has started to colour shades of orange and red. The sun is setting. Your chest tightens. Turning back to look at your family, you say, “I shouldn’t stay much longer, it’s getting dark.”

“You can take our carriage home, if you like,” aunt Sophia says, clearly unbothered.

Chewing on your bottom lip, you think about how to best breach the subject. You really don’t think anyone should be out after dark. Especially not the people who are unaware of the vampire threat. Which is... virtually all of London, really. Carefully you say, “I’ve just heard worrying rumours about the city being more dangerous as of late. Just because I’m taking a carriage won’t mean I’m invincible.”

Technically not a lie, but you figure your aunt can tell that you’re not telling her the whole truth. She eyes you carefully. It takes every bit of self-control you have not to squirm under her scrutinising gaze. Finally, she concedes. “Very well, I wouldn’t want you to worry about your own safety.”

“It would make me feel better too if you avoided travelling after dark,” you tell her, maybe a little too quick. You lightly clear your throat. “Not just you and Prudence and Grace, but also Marcus. And especially avoid travelling alone. If... If you can, of course.”

Aunt Sophia hums in acknowledgement. You can’t shake the feeling that she knows there’s more behind your words. With a reassuring smile, she softly tells you, “We’ll do what we can.” She then pauses, and you can tell that she’s thinking something over as a realisation has dawned on her. “I wonder if something happened to Elise.” You give her a quizzical look. “One of the maids. We only hired her last week, but she hasn’t shown up the past... three days. We thought she’d gone and found work elsewhere. Our household _is_ rather rambunctious at times, which is something not everyone can handle.” She shoots a pointed look at her daughters, who pretend not to see.

You swallow thickly, unaware of the exchange. Your heart is beating in your throat. “Where does she live?”

*

You handed the carriage driver a pound note to not tell aunt Sophia that he hasn’t brought you home.

The sun hangs precariously low above the horizon, reminding you that you don’t have much daylight left. As you walk down the street, you keep your head low to make sure your bonnet obscures your face. Just because the people can recognise your social status from the make of your coat and your dress, doesn’t mean that they also have to recognise who you actually are. You’d rather not have the gossips of the ton wonder out loud what you were doing in the impoverished parts of the city.

You eventually find the address of Elise’s home. The building is made of wood, looking nowhere near as structurally sound as the stone buildings you are so used to. You realise that this small, squalid building houses multiple families. It makes your chest tighten with guilt. Your city home is, without exaggerating, at least five times as big. To think that it’s just you and Trevor living there.

Shaking your head, you shake the thoughts from your mind. Now is not the time. You walk up to the front door and find that it can easily be pushed open. The lock is broken. Your breathing slowly turns shallow as you listen to the door creak loudly on rusted hinges.

You step into the hallway. The building is eerily quiet. You would have expected more noise and the lack of sound puts you on edge. The ground floor has two doors to two different apartments, and there’s a narrow staircase leading up. The wallpaper has started to yellow and is peeling at the corners. A stale, unpleasant smell hangs in the air. You head up, the steps loudly creaking under your weight. It makes you wince the first time, feeling like an intruder in someone else’s home. In a sense you are, but you need to know what happened to Elise.

Apartment number three. The painted number on the door has partially faded away. You lightly knock on the door, then wait.

No response.

You knock again, then wait.

No response.

“Elise?” you call out hesitantly, your voice catching in your throat. You repeat, a little louder and more confident this time, “Elise, are you there?”

No response.

You press your ear to the door, steadying your breathing as you try to listen for any sound or movement on the other side. Slowly but surely your breathing and heartbeat settle for a slower pace. You close your eyes and focus.

There’s a low, constant humming sound.

You feel your chest tighten with a sense of dread. Something is very, very wrong. This time you bang on the door. “Is anyone there?” you ask, starting to sound desperate for an answer.

When you once again receive no response, you swear under your breath, hike up your skirt, and kick in the door. The lock breaks and shatters, sending a loud metallic noise through the building, and the door swings open and slams against the wall. Putting your foot back down, that dreadful silence returns to the air, but there’s something else now too. Something else apart from your laboured breathing.

It’s not a humming sound, you realise. It’s a buzzing sound.

You look into the apartment, frozen in place. Flies. So many flies. Crawling across the walls and floors, sitting atop the shoddy furniture, buzzing through the air. You can only see the living room from where you’re standing. The hearth has nothing but ashes: the fire burned out long ago. A strangely putrid yet sweet stench penetrates your nostrils, leaving you faintly nauseous. Your heart sinks when you spot a smear of dark, dried blood on the wooden floor that leads to somewhere out of your line of sight. Your hands tremble as you reach for the gun strapped to your thigh, slipping it out from under your dress. Just to be sure, you check again that it’s loaded, and loaded correctly.

You swallow hard. Then you step into the apartment.

It’s small. Cramped, even. You only give a cursory glance to your surroundings, your focus is drawn completely to the trail of blood. It leads straight to the only other door, which has been left slightly ajar. The buzzing sound from the flies gets louder as you slowly approach the darkened room. You wince when some of them land on you, swatting them away with your free hand as you keep your gun firmly pointed in front of you. The heels of your leather boots click on the floor with each step.

You nudge open the door with the tip of your boot.

It creaks open, letting in the light from the windows into the smaller room. Nausea hits you fully this time, your hand flying to your mouth and nose to cover them. Two bodies, mauled and drained of blood beyond recognition, piled like animal carcasses on the bedroom floor. A black swarm of flies crawls and writhes over them. Your head is spinning, you feel sick, you want to throw up. You gasp for air but all you get is the stench of rot and you tremble and tears of anger and grief sting in your eyes. You should have warned your aunt the moment you had returned to London. You should have told her to tell the servants not to go out after dark. You should have... You should have...

Would it have helped? They were killed in their own home. Where they should have been safe.

They should have been safe here, but a vampire went into their home and feasted on them like they were treats on a banquet table. You lower your gun, trying to stifle your sobs. The thought of how terrified they must have been in their final moments fills you with heartbreak.

Heartbreak, and then slowly, rage.

You kick in the doors to the other apartments, one by one, and in each of them, you’re faced with carnage worse than the last. The building is devoid of life, and nobody knew. None of the neighbours knew. Nobody cared. Nobody missed these people. The bodies have been here for days and nobody went looking for them. You were the only one. You cry for the victims, cry for the bitter ends they faced, and cry for the lives they could have had. You let out a frustrated, anguished wail when you see a mother’s body slumped over an empty, broken crib. With strength you had no idea you possessed, you rip one of the wooden bars from the crib.

Then you leave the building. You head into the darkness of the night and look for a vampire to kill.

Your body is trembling and your breathing is ragged. With wide eyes you look around from under the brim of your bonnet, watching the dimly illuminated cobblestone road. All the curtains of the windows facing the streets are drawn shut, barely letting through any of the warm light from the hearths and candles. Your head feels faint. You’re strangely off-balance as you force yourself to take careful, controlled steps. Your limbs feel like they’ve turned to lead. The world is caving in on you. The darkness of the night is going to swallow you up and devour you whole, you’re convinced of it. There’s nothing you can do about it and nobody who can help you because you’re all alone outside.

Or so you thought.

“It’s late, ma’am,” a low, husky voice calls out from behind you. Footsteps. Too close for comfort. “A little too late for a woman to be out alone at night, don’t you think?”

The hairs in your neck stand up. You turn around to look at the source of the sounds. You bat your lashes as you feign innocence. “Not at all,” you respond, your voice perfectly even. “Not when she’s out hunting.”

His red eyes widen.

Click.

Bang.

The creature staggers back, clutching his hand to his chest. It bares its fangs and hisses in pain and anger. You charge at him, pushing him back into a dark alleyway and knocking him onto his back. He tries to push you off him and he claws at you but you don’t feel the pain, you just pin him down with your full weight as you straddle his chest, swearing at him and telling him to die, die, _die_! Like a feral animal driven into a corner you scream as you pull out the wooden bar and stake him over and over and over until all you can see is red.

With an agonising scream the creature withers away to dust and bones until all you’re stabbing through is a brittle, empty ribcage. It’s not enough, you tell yourself as you continue hitting and crying and screaming. It’s not enough.

It has to die. They all have to die. They’ve done worse than kill people. They’ve stolen lives and stolen futures and stolen hopes and dreams. You’ll take it back. You’ll take it back with your own bare, bloody hands if you have to, you’ll take it back kicking and screaming and crying. You’ll take it back and hold onto it and make sure that nobody will ever have to be stolen from ever again.

Your head snaps up. Voices. Someone must have heard the gunshot.

The wooden stake clatters on the ground when you stand up and take shaky, staggering steps away from the body. You fumble as you slip your gun back into the holster, your panicked eyes darting around and trying to see where the people are coming from. You can’t be seen like this. You’ll be accused of murder, without a doubt. You’ll be ruined. Your family will be ruined. Trevor will be ruined. So you do the only thing you know to do. You run. You run as fast as your feet can carry you, disappearing into the darkness. You run through the cool night air, your lungs burning with exertion and sobs. You run, blinking away the tears and the blood. There are no sounds to you anymore. All you hear is the buzzing. The godawful buzzing of the flies crawling over the bodies.

You run and run and run and suddenly there’s a door.

It opens. You blink against the bright light. You see your butler. He looks worried. You see his mouth move. You can’t hear him. You stagger inside, into the hallway of your home. The door closes behind you. You lean against the wall. You leave behind a red handprint. Trevor runs down the stairs. He holds you. You look up at him. You see his mouth move. You blink.

“Vampire,” you croak out.


	11. Reverence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the day of the appointment with Adrian, Trevor’s wife reminds him of just how much she loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back, back, back again to the normal posting schedule. Second scene is smut towards the end. Enjoy it or skip it, it's up to you! See you next time >:)

The glass shatters in her hand, spilling blood and shards all over the floor.

The servant winces, keeping her head low.

“What did you say?” Carmilla asks, her voice controlled and even. It takes every single bit of her self restraint not to let out a frustrated scream. This is _not_ how this is supposed to go. She had looked into your background, unearthing every single bit of information that she could get her hands on. You are _not_ supposed to be a threat. You were never a threat, but now—

“The Belmonts are in London,” the servant repeats meekly. “And—”

“I heard you the first time,” Carmilla snaps. She wipes her hands on a handkerchief, cleaning off the red. She glares at the servant, then she gestures at the glass and blood on the tiled floor. “Clean up this mess.”

“Right away, ma’am.” She bobs a quick curtsy and immediately gets to work.

Carmilla lets out a long, tired exhale.

Heels click on the tiled floor. “What is it with the long face, Carmilla?” Morana’s voice calls out, an amused edge to it. She walks into her sister’s sight, then sits down at the table. Morana throws a cursory glance at the servant mopping up the blood. She smirks. “And all this mess. You’re not throwing a tantrum, are you?”

“I almost want to,” Carmilla bites off. “Almost.”

Morana raises a brow. “Is this because of the Navy problem? Once Godbrand arrives at the Scottish coasts, it’ll only be a matter of time before they move their fleets.”

Carmilla runs a hand through her pale hair. “I know. I trust Striga’s strategy, I’m sure it’ll work. But that’s not it.” She grits her teeth and slams her fist on the table. “It’s those goddamned Belmonts. I knew Trevor would be a problem eventually, so I planned for it. But I didn’t think his _wife_ would be a threat.” She snaps her fingers, and a new glass of red is brought for her. Carmilla holds it up to the light to inspect it. Then she takes a sip and sighs. “I had Lenore look into her and find out everything she could. We were sure she’s nothing but a pretty face, but clearly, she’s not. She killed a vampire just a few hours ago, on her own. All she used was one bullet and a stake.”

Even Morana looks surprised. Then she smiles. ”That’s our mistake for thinking like men: that a beautiful woman is nothing but a pretty face.”

“You seem awfully calm about this,” Carmilla says coolly.

“Of course I am. If we’re faced with a problem, then all we have to do is find a solution,” Morana tells her, shrugging nonchalantly. “I happen to have a very simple solution. Care to hear me out, sister?”

Carmilla grins. “Of course.”

*

Your eyes are closed. Slowly Trevor’s fingers run across your skin, trailing down your arm. He murmurs soft and soothing words to you, and you let yourself sink further into the down mattress and his strong arms. It’s been an exhausting few days for you.

After you killed the vampire and returned home, Trevor helped you write an anonymous tip to the Bow Street Runners. Only two days later, you received a letter from aunt Sophia to let you know that Elise had been found dead in her apartment. You wrote back, telling her you were sorry to hear the grim news and offered her your condolences. Then you broke down in tears at your escritoire.

Nothing could have prepared you for this part of the reality of hunting monsters.

“I can’t get the sound out of my head,” you whisper, opening your eyes to look up at Trevor.

His hand stops moving, and you almost regret speaking up. You already miss the gentle caress and how it makes your body relax. He softly asks you, “What sound?”

You swallow convulsively, feeling a little sick as the memory resurfaces. “The flies.”

There’s a moment of silence first, but eventually, Trevor hums in acknowledgement. Your eyes flutter closed again when he continues trailing his fingertips across your skin. “There are things that’ll haunt you forever. That will keep you awake at night. Sometimes it’s the things you see or hear or... or even smell. Sometimes it’s when you wonder if you could have done something different.”

You hear the hurt in his voice, and you don’t have to ask him to know what he’s talking about.

Quietly he continues. “There are things that happened years ago that still weigh on my mind. Things I just can’t seem to let go. But it’s... It’s been more bearable with you around.” Your eyes open again and you search his face. He smiles. Your heart flutters when you realise how vulnerable he’s allowing himself to be around you. Trevor swallows the lump in his throat, then hoarsely says, “I won’t pretend that it’s easy. I don’t think it ever will be. You’ll end up getting your fair share of scars, too.” His fingers move to touch the angry red claw marks on your arms that are just starting to heal. “Not all will be physical. But I hope... Well, I hope I’ll make everything more bearable for you, too.”

You blink away the tears in your eyes, pressing your cheek to his chest. His name leaves your lips as a sigh. “Everything’s more bearable with you around.”

He pulls you tighter into his embrace. You listen to his heartbeat and his quiet, steady breathing. It’s soothing. It makes you feel drowsy, almost enough so to lull you to sleep. However, when he whispers your name with a bit of uncertainty laced to his voice, your eyes open wide and you look up at him quizzically. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, actually,” he admits, looking like breaching the subject is difficult for him.

You slip out of his arms and sit up straight in bed, the edge of the covers bunching up in your lap. Trevor follows your example, then nervously runs a hand through his chestnut hair. “What is it?” you ask him quietly. “You can tell me anything.”

“I know,” he says and manages a smile, but it’s still uneasy. He chews on his bottom lip and he finds himself unable to look at you as he thinks of how he can best turn his worries into words. Your hands find his, giving them a reassuring squeeze. Then he speaks up, “I’ve been thinking, I... Well, about our...” He pauses. You anxiously wait for him to continue. “I saw Jonathan the other day,” Trevor says in a clarifying tone. As if that clarifies anything for you. “He got married just this summer, and he already has his first child on the way. It made me wonder if—” His voice catches in his throat. He turns his head away from you so you can’t see him blink away his tears.

You whisper his name.

“What if I can’t give you any children?” he blurts out. You just stare at him, dumbfounded. Trevor’s cheeks colour with embarrassment, and he shakes his head and with a groan, he hides his face in his hand. “Never mind, it’s stupid, I know—”

“No, it’s not stupid,” you interject, taking his hands again and forcing him to look at you. “I’ve had the same worries. About myself, I mean. I wondered if I was the problem.”

“How could you possibly be?” he says with a gentle voice, concern written all over his face for your own insecurities. “You’re still so young, while I’m—”

You can’t help but laugh. “Trev, you’re only a few years older than I am, there’s no need to talk like you’re already in your sixties.” Slowly a grin blooms on his face, and you feel yourself relax. You shrug lightly, then quietly say, “Maybe we just haven’t been lucky. Or maybe it’s just not our time yet to become parents.” You smile, hoping you’ll be able to make Trevor laugh. “It would be difficult fighting a vampire army while pushing a baby in a pram, I think.”

The remark draws a chuckle from him, making your heart flutter. “I think I’ll do perfectly fine, pushing a baby in a pram while fighting a vampire army. But you’re right. We probably shouldn’t worry so much.” His smile slowly fades. He sighs. “Easier said than done, though.”

You kiss him on the cheek. “I know. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop worrying, to be honest. But I’m... I’m trying not to let it control my life, you know?” You brush your thumb over the back of Trevor’s hand. “I love you, Trevor. And I’m happy with our marriage the way it is. It’s not incomplete just because we don’t have a baby. I don’t see you as less of a husband because of it, just like I know you don’t see me as less of a wife.”

Trevor feels tears prick in his eyes again. He offers you a tired grin after wiping away the tears. “Now you’ve gone and made me cry again.”

“It’s what I’m good at,” you tell him jokingly, pressing a kiss to his other cheek.

“Truly a talent like no other,” he mumbles, putting his arms around you and pulling you close. His hands hold you by your waist and the small of your back. You feel the warmth of his body seep through the thin fabric of your chemise. He murmurs against your ear, “I love you too.”

Your eyes flutter shut and you sigh, leaning into him as you both fall back into the mattress. You’re a tangle of limbs as you press kisses along his stubbled jaw. Your body fits perfectly against his and for the first time since you’ve married you allow yourself to be completely fanciful and wonder if you were made for each other.

Knowing that Trevor felt the same anxiety as you did put your own worries at ease, but it saddens you that he didn’t allow himself to share his worries immediately. You kiss down his neck and across the hollow of his throat. Your lips feel the moan that your kisses draw out of him.

You love so him fiercely, with such blinding intensity that it even scares you a little sometimes. Trevor told you that he had given you too much power over his heart, but you know the same is true the other way around. This man holds your heart and your soul in his hands whether he realises it or not, and despite his rough exterior, he finds his own way to be gentle with you. Your lips travel down to the edge of his collarbone. Gently you suck and nip at his skin as you slowly work your way across his broad chest.

Trevor whispers your name, looking at you with a slightly confused expression. “What are you doing?”

You kiss him just above his navel. “Reminding you of how much I love you.”

He feels his heart skip a beat. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice hoarse. You smile and give him a reassuring nod. He swallows thickly, then allows himself to relax and sink into the pillow as he feels your lips travel further down. Your mouth is hot and wet against his skin, making him shudder with every touch. He stares at the ceiling as he feels you lie down between his legs, propping yourself up on your forearms. His bottom lip catches between his teeth in anticipation. He inhales sharply.

Your hand wraps around him, then with languid movements begins stroking his length. Trevor’s lips part to allow his shallow breaths to escape him. Occasionally they’re interrupted with a quiet moan. It doesn’t take long for him to stiffen with arousal and excitement, especially when he looks at you. You smile at him with half-lidded eyes, your loose hair falling down over your shoulders. Trevor can barely believe how beautiful you look. He tries to commit the moment to memory, but he’s quickly distracted again when your thumb brushes across his tip. He inhales sharply. Your fingers do everything exactly right. You’ve remembered damn well what your husband does and doesn’t like. Feeling a little daring, you whisper, “Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” Trevor says hoarsely, tilting his head back. He likes it when you’re assertive. God, no, he _loves_ it.

“Well, I... I think this will feel even better.”

His eyes screw shut and his fingers dig into the sheets. You’ve taken him into your mouth. The slick heat slides across him, drawing desperate moans from his throat with every movement. It takes every bit of self-control for him to not buck his hips, instead surrendering himself completely to you. He takes shaky, erratic breaths, his chest rising and falling. Your tongue leads him to a pleasure so overwhelming and intense that it almost makes him forget his name.

He’s close. He can feel it, the slow buildup towards his climax. He knows it’ll be so, _so_ good, but he... It won’t be right. He doesn’t want it to be like this.

Calling out your name, Trevor’s voice makes you freeze. You slip him out of your mouth and look at him, worried you did something wrong. He swallows thickly when he sees you, your lips so swollen and so kissable. He opens his mouth to explain, but immediately feels his cheeks burn up with embarrassment. Normally he’s so assertive, demanding what he wants and then taking it. Now he has to ask. Beg, almost. Quietly he says, “I want to be inside you.”

A smile blooms on your face. Trevor feels himself falling even more in love with you. “Of course,” you whisper to him, then climb on top of him to capture his lips in a kiss. He moulds his lips against yours desperately, tasting his own saltiness on your tongue. Under the skirt of your chemise, his hands find your thighs and grab them, feeling the soft flesh and your silky skin. Your hair falls past your face, the strands lightly tickling and brushing across his jaw and cheek. He feels like he could drown in your scent, he feels like he could drown in all of you, and he would willingly let it happen.

You sit up to properly straddle his hips, bunching up your skirt around your hips. Trevor watches you in anticipation. He wishes you could see yourself the way he sees you. You’re perfect. Every single bit of you is perfect. Your loose hair falls down across your shoulders, drawing attention to your collarbone and chest. The neckline of your chemise has slipped dangerously low, but it doesn’t matter: your nipples are perky with excitement and visible through the thin fabric. Though the dress hides most of your body, Trevor doesn’t have to see it to know what every curve looks like, and to know that it’s all perfect.

You’re all he could ever want, and all he will ever want.

Your hand guides him into you. You’re already wet with excitement from how Trevor has been responding to you taking the lead. Slowly you let him fill you up and stretch you out as you lower yourself onto him. Trevor’s eyes flutter closed and he has to stop himself from gripping your thighs even harder. When he’s completely inside you, he lets out a short, shuddering breath. A pleased moan escapes your lips.

“Trevor,” you call out softly, putting your hands on his chest to keep your balance steady. His blue eyes hesitantly meet yours. Your smile is seductive. “Don’t look away.”

He could die happy now, he thinks.

You begin moving your hips, beginning at a slow pace. All the while he keeps his hands on your thighs and continues holding eye contact with you. His cheeks are flushed with arousal and slight embarrassment, but he’s far too swept up in his own bliss and ecstasy to care. The only thing that matters is you. You, your body, and how all of you makes him feel like he’s the only man left in the world. You pick up the pace and his eyes screw shut with pleasure. The tight heat and slickness lure him closer to the edge and he allows himself to be brought there without any protest. He wants this so badly, he can scarcely think of anything else. Your voice calls out his name, and his eyes open again. “Don’t look away,” you remind him with a gentle yet firm voice.

He feels himself twitch in response to the command. He’s close, so close, and just this time he’ll allow himself to be selfish and think of his own climax first as he lets you ride him to completion. Your name rolls from his lips like a prayer as he tries not to look away or close his eyes. Then with a final, pleading repetition of your name, his body tenses up and he comes undone. You stop moving, letting him empty himself inside of you as he grips your thighs so hard that his knuckles almost turn white.

You watch him. He’s completely dazed from pure bliss as he looks at you like you must be a goddess. For a moment you feel like one, smiling proudly at how you’ve reduced Trevor to a panting mess.

He winces a little when you slip him out of you, then he tilts his head back as he tries to catch his breath. “Christ,” he mumbles. “You drive me crazy.”

Sitting down next to him, you smile. It’s just a little wicked. “I take it that that means you enjoyed yourself?”

Trevor looks at you with a lopsided, lazy grin. “I did. A lot.” He sits up, and suddenly you’re on your back with him on top of you. His lips are on your neck and chest. You stifle a moan when he purrs, “Let me return the favour.”

*

You almost slept in the next morning, and that on such an important day.

“The Paper Trail,” you mumble to yourself as you give the card another glance. “We’re on time, right?”

Trevor checks his pocket watch. “It’s ten minutes to noon.” The carriage comes to a halt. “I think we’ll be perfectly on time.”

The driver opens the door. Trevor gets out, then offers you his hand to help you alight from the carriage. You step onto Bond Street, and immediately a smile blooms on your face. The street is abuzz with members of high society socialising, talking and laughing as they catch up and gossip.

You walk from there, not wanting to draw too much attention to yourselves as you make your way to the bookstore. You don’t want to be late, and you especially don’t want any questions when you’re in _the_ place for gossip.

Despite the seriousness of the meeting ahead, you can’t help but continue wearing your smile. The relaxed atmosphere puts you in a good mood. Trevor, on the other hand, has about as much joy on his face as the average funeral attendee. “At least it’s not raining,” you whisper to your husband. He just grunts in response. Your arm is linked with his as you walk. Much to his annoyance, however, you’re regularly stopped by acquaintances who want to know _everything_ about how you’re experiencing life as a married couple and _everything_ about your plans now you’ve returned to London.

You tell your acquaintances that it’s so lovely to see them again, that you’re quite enjoying married life, and that you’re sure to attend lots of social gatherings when you have the time and energy. You tell them, oh, look at the time, you have somewhere to be, but you’ll be sure to catch up with them soon again. You tell them yes, of course, you’ll visit, you’d love to, but you really have to go now.

It’s a little past noon by the time you manage to make it to The Paper Trail, _and_ you’ve made another three appointments for dinner.

Lucky for Trevor, the front of the bookstore is situated in an alley, out of sight from the masses chatting away. A painted wooden sign hanging out on Bond Street was what pointed you to the shop. You’re not sure if you would have been able to find it without the sign. Not without asking people anyway, and that would have surely stirred up gossip. You peer inside. The windows of the shopfront are a little dirty. Beyond the glass, you see books upon books stacked against the walls and on tables. It’s a rather small shop, you think, but maybe that’s exactly why Adrian chose it.

You don’t see the dhampir in question anywhere. In fact, you don’t see anybody in the bookshop.

After exchanging a look with Trevor, both of you shrug. He holds the door open for you, and you head inside. The shop is dimly illuminated by what little light comes in through the windows facing the alleyway. It’s bright outside, but there’s still plenty of candles lit, some precariously close to the wares. The sight makes you shudder. This entire shop is a fire hazard, you think. Slowly you peruse the books on display, which all appear to vary wildly in subject and language. You’re quite curious who would own a shop like this. There’s nobody behind the wooden counter, though you do spot a sign saying “NO REFUNDS”.

Trevor is taking a look around the shop as well. You can tell from the look on his face that there’s something that’s bothering him. Now doesn’t seem like the time to ask about it, though. He catches you looking at him, then offers you a small smile. “You wouldn’t think that Adrian is late, would you?”

Before you can answer, the door in the wall behind the counter opens. How did you not notice it earlier? ... Was it even there earlier? You look at Trevor, and he looks at you, and then he carefully approaches the counter to peer through the doorway. There are stairs leading down into a basement of sorts. You can’t really tell from where you’re standing, it’s quite dark.

Trevor puts his hand on his sword. “Stay close,” he tells you softly, and you nod.

Carefully you head down, trying to be as quiet as you can. It’s no use though, as the stairs creak under your weight. Down into the darkness you go. It makes you nervous. Quietly you whisper Trevor’s name.

He glances over his shoulder and gives you a reassuring smile.

Then you hear him set foot on a stone floor, and you’re almost blinded when suddenly the candles in the basement are all set alight at the same time. You blink, trying to get your eyes adjusted so you can see your surroundings.

You hear a gasp, quick footsteps, and then the wind knocked out of Trevor’s lungs. You blink again, then find yourself frozen. You see a stunning red-haired woman with her arms around your husband’s shoulders. A light blue gown clings to her delicate frame, perfectly matching the colour of her eyes. She beams at Trevor, offering him a dazzling smile that would leave anyone speechless. “Trevor! It’s been so long since I last saw you. How have you been?”

Trevor swallows hard. “Ah, Sypha... It’s been a while.”

Your heart sinks.


End file.
